Back Poem by Sunday Champion

age set my pen on exile
into an aisle where ink
is sniffle from its nostrils.
and chases me into a dry land
where thirst melts the hunger of
the soul of the tongue
like a leaf, my pen withered,
like a bird with plumes
that have lost the magic of the wind.

It is a story of a lost song
that took wings from the wind
a magic song of how a lost pen, drained
became a bleeding ocean flowing into
oceans
singing mellifluous songs age gaze to swallow.
Let the ink flows again!