The Pen

by David Wallace

The pen that hoards ten thousand words,
seeks only guiding hand
To spill it’s blood on virgin page,
like entrails in the sand.
For thus the toil, at authors whim,
drives quill to strive for gain
That readers eye, or listening heart,
might understand the pain
The arteries of heartsblood,
splashed upon those whitened fields
Bear wounds and scars of battles fought,
where wiser heart would yield.
No truce sought, nor quarter begged,
the pen unlocks the word,
that Wielded in the skilful hand,
cuts cleaner than the sword.
For wiser heads and stronger minds,
have yielded to the might,
that bursts in fountains from the heart,
and bleeds with words of light.

David Wallace

David Wallace's picture

I am a fifty eight year old Writer/Musician living and working in Spain. Having been employed in the publishing business for most of my working life, I now write for pleasure. I have won several competitions for both short stories and poetry and am currently a member of several forums to which I contribute on a regular basis.

Last updated July 15, 2011