Our single-veined pens briefly knew the world
as a sprawling town of scrawled addresses,
and caressed on white sheets, where they lay curled,
the shapes into which a daydream digresses
(the many limbs that a stopped hour craves)
and among clouds, or hills, spun from spiral lace
(where the crosses are either gulls or graves)
we find, ambitiously, a remembered face
adrift among the accounts of the day,
the last, perhaps, we might ever see
and this face, smiling, may very well say,
“This is your last pen, and now it’s empty.”
About the Poet
Trevor Price works in the textile industry, and apart from verse, he writes satirical fiction in English and Latin.
For the first time in nearly five years, Vita Brevis is closed for submission. Read the full story here.