Pen and Brush【POETRY】

Pen and Brush

The gestation of the Pen took thirteen years.
Perhaps they were always there, just glistening.
Transparent in the ultrasound.

The Pen awoke at thirteen years, and aged from there.
Weaving stories bright and vibrant, low and sound.
The Pen wielded the mind and commanded it through words.

The story of the Pen is nothing like the stories of their words.
The Pen’s life is linear in physicality, but a spider’s tangled web in the mind.
Few grand adventures, many great battles.

There’s joy in the journey, but not every battle is won.
The Pen is not like its early characters.
The Pen has no armor. The Pen has but one bullet in each fight.

Their stories grow higher as each fall falls lower.
But the pit is too deep. The stories can no longer reach.
“The world is lonely by my hands.”

With no way up and no way down, the Pen searches left and right.
Digging tunnels in the pit of desperation, so many lies are found.
But eventually. The Pen will find the Brush.

Their tunnels meet. They’ve both been digging.
They see everything in each other’s eyes.
Clinging to the other’s hand, they both seek the pit.

A familiar sight to both of them, the hole they fell in.
The Pen’s forgotten stories sit in one corner, the Brush’s melted colors in the other.
“Someone has to be at the bottom, it just happened to be us.”

“But it doesn’t have to be.”
The Pen and the Brush meld the flood.
Their stories and their paintings fill the hole. They rise up.

At the top, colors and words gush over the land.
They have created a fountain.
The sun shines on their now-full stomachs.
They can walk forward, together.