The Pen that Purges
Of my Pen I can only speak, and from my Pen I can only Jest. To wonder as to how, as fair as can be, our simple inspiration, seems to have lost her wings. As we see you bleeding to paper, as now ask that you dip thy pen, into velvet scarlet, and write stories yet untold. We see you, from our shadows, writing madly, trying to create. Power most divine we shall share, to give it is much a curse as a malady. To inspire we do, and to inspiration we walk; in shadow or in Light, to us there is little else. And not much difference.