By: Ahmed Al shiekh
What sort of pen is this?
The one that plays with its ink upon the white page
Is it you… or is it me?
Or is it the words that refuse to be confined by the black ink
for fear of losing their freedom if imprisoned within it?
Distances shrink, and the letters crowd together on the page
And I fear I might get lost in your details and never find my way back
Or is it that you fear getting lost in my details, so you prefer silence?
For writing is nothing but organised loss
on a merciless white page, leaving no trace for the hesitant
And the letter is a trust, whilst silence is sometimes a betrayal of meaning
So write… if the soul has something to say
or let silence write for you what you could not
for the page is white and waiting, and the pen longs to flow
And time is passing, and what is written today may not be possible tomorrow
And the blank page, my friend, is our final trap
So what will you do? Will you confront it with the pen, or let it swallow you whole?
