I stare at blank page ,
Then stir up my mind's page.
Like a lamb, the pen is bound to caress the sheet,
Whoever said 'twas easy to write,
The pen would have been the best author
Without discreet .
But here it's all covered in finger prints ,
Like an evidence from a crime scene.
A mighty sword sentenced many without being seen .
Who is the writer ?
Is it the self acclaimed author?
Or the humble driven pen caught in our fingers,
Obliviously making us read between the lines ?
Indeed those with much power seldomly exert it .
The question reechoes without a vacuum .
From the composer, to the author, to the poet ,
There's never been a great writer than
The pen that is a complement to the duet .