MY PEN

In the midsome of treath

Where it felt that I had no breath

Only a victim to travailing scenery

Am I a restless salt that melt lunch?

Days were the ticks of the wrist

When I had no tongue to articulate the lip

Mist with the feather of the fist

Silenced even with right to self savour

Now I fly with the eagles

With stars beholding I with a look up

Inks at heart and mind as to fountain

Being an advocate for justice with a pen.