I am nothing; but a mere pen

I am like a pin,
Stitch poems from within;
Sometimes called mightier than a sword,
'cause i have a beast within me...

I am poised,
Like the lady by the lake;
I craft my own creation,
And leave marks behind every recreation...

Writing little proses,
Spreading the ink over the folds of the crumbled page;
Move to and fro on the dead pressed tree,
'Tis is thy rage...

Evolving from a feather,
I saw history ; I made history,
The writers who died kept on writing their mystery...

The thoughts might not last,
So I carve them on the page,
In the momentary secrets i drown,
Writing the poem from the ink of my cage...
©mathilde