This pen has become rusty with age,
It needs consistent companionship of a hand,
Lest it rust in rest,
Best for it is turmoil and work,
I fear when it stops to display a comma or an apostrophe,
Especially the full stop cuts my breath,
I fear to be deserted once again,
The last experience I could barely take,
The lines it carves in my blood,
Make my way to dusty death,
In it lies my destiny,
For what is destiny without a friend?
All the pages of my life it bled,
Are a proof of its faithfulness,
Sometimes I wonder a cage is it? Or its me?
My dependence on it answers this,
But then it has become rusty with age,
It too needs consistent companionship of a hand.