I am lying on a bookshelf, unused and uncovered.
Among the pages unwritten and some work undone.
I was called a mighty pen, once.
Powerful and brave.
I fought many battles and won many raves.
What happened to my soldier, my guide, and my friend?
Some called him a poet and a man who made many dents.
Did I run out of ink?
Or disappoint him with my workings?
I swear, I tried.
Moved fast to rekindle the old magic and bring him some light.
Alas! I lost.
And together, we lost the might to fight.
