The Fountain Pen Poem by Tapera Makadho

There is no more ink
In my fountain pen
Left only is the stink
Of its blots.
Its dry nib, now a spear
Tears paper like a shredder.

There is no more ink
In my fountain pen,
It spewed in its times
Indelible black ink on white pages
Which like stains of blood
On a priest's robes
Tell tales of horror.

There is no more ink
In my fountain pen
It signed in its times
Verdicts and edicts
Bills and Acts
Orders and Laws.

What story can I still write?
What song can I still compose?
There is no more ink
In my fountain pen
Left only is the dry nib
Which now like a spear
Haunts paper and pad.

Shall you stand hence
Like carrion of the woods
Waiting to feed vultures and condor
When my fountain pen
Signs another edict of terror
In this territory bereft of pens?