The Dried Ink

As I sit to write

My same old ink pen

Begins to talk to me

In words I never knew

I would ever know

It refuses to write

Saying its canals had dried

Like the thoughts, I tried

But it did not relent

I reminded him of the good old

The smell of blue as it faded

on husky old paper

It reminded me of how long that was

After much persuasion

It did splutter

the same old smell of blue

Beginning afresh with splendor renewed