My Pen Poem by Bill Cantrell

My pen has wings,
It has the innocence of a child
It walks through walls and dreams
It is a student observing his masters steps
My pen is a prayer,
It weeps for the fatherless child,
And worries for the needs of the widow
Through all the ups and downs of life,
It has been in the quiver of my soul,
And a soul must give way to its feelings
My pen has feet,
It runs far away to distant lands
It laps up water at a welcoming spring,
Refreshing itself in spite of the sweltering heat
Oh yes, my pen has its faults
It angers all too often,
Leaving others in the wake of it's shortsightedness
It is moody and presumptuous,
Yet, it repents in sackcloth and ashes,
On bended knee, begging forgiveness
It seeks a resting place,
As it grows ever tired these days,
Yet it swims through meter and rhythm,
And it's fondness is in hearts full of love
My pen is dressed in rags,
Though it is content with its lot in life,
Never envying the inkwell of another
If you listen,
You can hear it knock on your door
Leaving it's child in a basket,
On your stoop
Well aware it will be taken care of,
For you have gained its trust
My pen walks many paths,
And now, I think I will rest a bit,
To take in the day and make sense of it all,
As I await the glory of the next sunset.
My pen does not like goodbyes,
Even though his days draw to a close,
He is ever grateful for the interchange,
Of encouragement through the years
So then, until the next time,
I leave you in peace,
For I never come empty handed