The Price Paid for a Thought.

By Avani.Dinakar.Haritsa

Crisp clear pages,

Hold no fiery char.

A pen flowing freely,

Worn with lovelorn use.

The paper speaks with glee,

Of new surroundings free.

The inker sighs, resigned,

For the writer, apparently fined.

The pages are new,

Memories few.

The pen has scars,

From wounds of a time afar.

Paper lays damp with splotches of tears,

Ink spills to the floor — used to this familiar routine.

The writer cries,

As his shattered pen dies.

The pages look on in surprise,

Fear begins to arise.

This man, driven mad by talent,

His career gives much time to lament.

He shouts in frustration,

“What more can I do at my station?”

He shoves aside the inkpot, crushes sheets of paper;

And suddenly, a realisation is thought —

The art was never caged in ink; It lived in him, the brink, the brink.

By Avani.Dinakar.Haritsa