The pen before me lies, devoid of ink,
Its barren nib a silent witness to my thoughts.
Upon this crumpled page, I seek to link
The fragments of my soul—the battles fought.
Why does this pen withhold its fluent grace?
Perhaps it fears the stains of ink, like scars,
That mar the canvas of my beating space,
A testament to life’s relentless wars.
Yet still, I yearn for words to find their way,
To trace a path from darkness into light.
Can faith, like ink, transform the night to day,
Illuminate this parchment, void of fight?
A single drop—a prayer, a whispered plea—
Could resurrect the verses left unsung.
For inkless pages need not always be,
When hope and God converge, redemption sprung.
My pen may rest, its reservoir now dry,
But faith replenishes what words can’t weave.
In God’s embrace, my spirit learns to fly,
And breathes anew—a poem yet to conceive
