Dried Pen

By Ghosty Chan

As I slowly breathe my last on the page, 

and the darkness in me dwindles into oblivion, 

I can only dream of a cremation. 

Not for a haven of songs and paper-white wings, 

not an escape from the black, red and burning; 

nothing but a silent prayer of a second life as rumoured 

From the lips of the owner of the hand that held me; 

from the sheet that I had drained myself to help create. 

Replaced, drained, discarded. 

Replaced, drained, discarded.

How many of us has it been now? 

Various souls cycling through the same body, 

the same merciless click signalling a start and an end: 

Line after line after dot after curve, 

Until we run out. 

We are replaceable. 

We are made to be. 

Copy and paste, 

same mold, same fluid. 

And at the end of it, who mourns us?

Surely not the Hand, whose warmth was only vaguely felt 

through walls suffocatingly snug. 

It tosses us aside, already grabbing another one to jam in that living coffin. 

At least it’s not much a quiet departure, 

the inconsistently lighter colouring—

the sharp transition to a fuller, darker ink 

marking the death of one and the birth of another, 

drained and used to the very end. 

I wonder if i was satisfactory. 

If my smoothness was smooth enough and my ink flowed well enough, 

but then again, I suppose 

I wouldn't have been worked so hard for so long if I wasn't. 

I can only hope the red line that crosses my story notices my sacrifice.

By Ghosty Chan