an Ode to my Bic pen

an Ode for a Bic pen

How do we say goodbye?
How sad, dear friend, to part.
Do we measure your life in inky blood?
Do we commend your duration?
Or are the tracked thoughts
          Blots
Words across a page
Written in your blood
A testimate to your time?
How brave the mighty bic,
                      How clear.
We see your veins
As we bleed you;
Slowly;
        Word by word,
                Letter by letter.
You are the voice,
            The Bearer,
The Apollo of thought;
                    An avatar to the world.
We cherish as we remember
That ev’ry colour is yours.
                  Blue
            Red
All black.

Now the rainbow dresses in black,
            In homage;
            In sorrow.
They say a picture is worth
         one thousand words…
How much greater, then, is
                   the stately bic?
So vivid its details
Its expressions
Its lines upon the page…
It is an analog truth
         a fortune teller
         a historian
         a soul.
Should we torturers be guilty
As each drop
         blot
                   clot
Of viscous blood
Becomes a culture,
         a revolution
                   an idea?
Do we pity the bic,
A martyr to the cause,
A brave and heroic villian,
That we wield without
         a second thought
Against an unthinking world?
Or do we relish
      spilling the bic’s life-blood
                writing comedy
         celebrating vanity.

Is each drip of
    inky blackness
         that
slowly kills the pen
        a
neccesary sacrifice?
         Do we make trophies
of the
        bloodless bic?
Do we count it a victory
To empty our maker
         and deliver its corpse
                   to the garbage?
The bic has made us
         And it will break us
For what can the writer say
                    when the bic
        runs
d…