Only a Pen

Once, there was a Poet

Who only had a pen.

But, there wasn’t anything

To write her story in.

When she was a child,

She scribbled on the walls.

Described the trees, the flowers,

And the many animals.

Then, she grew a bit older,

And the sky was a brighter blue.

Adventure knocked at her door

As she sought something new.

She learned all sorts of magic,

And made many friends.

She rhymed with kings,

Flew with bees, and broke the hearts of men.

Her bones old and frail,

Cracked like fresh celery.

Her feet ached and seized,

They danced a lifetime melody.

Once, there was a Poet

Who only had a pen.

Finally, there was paper

To write her story in.

But, for once, the canvas

Remained ever blank.

Not one single idea

Stirred inside her veins.

Then, she took a look back

At her memories.

A ballerina of the world,

She had already lived her story.

So, she sat at the desk

And raised a mighty hand,

And recalled all the things she did

Thanks to her magical pen.