Pens and quills everywhere,
but not a dropp of ink.
Paper stacked in 9 foot piles,
mankind on the brink.
Teardrops falling down like rain,
not a sound is heard.
The Saint again must slash himself,
and write in blood his words.
It up to him to bring forth calm,
with his soothing letters.
Its up to him to make things write,
cause no one does it better.
Tis a curse inside he knows,
but its up to him to share.
The words that make us all believe,
as we read that someone cares.
Paper stacked in 9 foot piles,
pens and quills are everywhere.
saint cynosure ( Ken Bennight )
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-a-drop-of-ink/
