Broken pen

Tell me a story,
Mouthed a piqued heart,
One spring night as the clouds poured a tear.
A smile creased his wrinkled cheeks,
A reminiscent glow ember-ed in his eyes,
As he saw her tracing the creaking dendrons in her palm.

In the flicker of the flame of the candle by their bed,
He spoke of nights of decades past,
When time drowned in boundless conversations,
Surfacing, but not quite, to breathe awhile.
He spoke of the trails traipsed upon by jaded feet,
Of twining tracks baked in the setting sun,
Of trains, wayfarers and pungent mires.
He spoke of starry nights peering shy out of the cityscape,
Of Orion’s belt and moonlight gilded tress.
He spoke of halos of midnight’s orb,
Of dewdrop clasping on a morning blade,
Of a curious moth for nectar sweet at day,
Of magic and witchcraft by heathen hands.
He spoke of incomplete tunes,
Of complete songs,
Of parched poetry on a dusty attic shelf.

She turned to him with question in her eyes,
As another dawn spread it’s wings across the eastern sky,
Who are they, she whispered clasping the wilted fingers,
A story, he smiled, by a broken pen.