The Quill

On a quiet summer's eve,

While empty trains arrive and leave,

And pawnbrokers trade, lie, deceive;

A quill fell to the ground.

That same night, while many slept,

A bearded man who stood and wept,

Froze abruptly and, his eyes kept

On the object they just found.

Soon, the quill lay in his hand,

He glanced around the space, unmanned;

Remembered, thought became command,

He stilled, and shouted with joy.

He ran to the paper shop,

And there he made a lengthy stop,

He handed a few pennies to the sleepy counter boy.

His next intent was to find ink, black;

When he found it, he scurried back

To the station where he'd started

But not weeping anymore.

He took the quill, and swiftly wrote,

His story - A life of little note;

By morn, the story ended and,

He fell hard to the floor.

That final night's sad book of sorrow,

Was found and read upon the morrow,

And classified a masterpiece;

Forgotten life had now been found.

 On a quiet summer's eve,

While empty trains arrive and leave,

And pawnbrokers trade, lie, deceive;

A quill fell to the ground.

by: Walter

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