The Feather Pen

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The angels’ wings are molting, so I’ll make my pen.
Sound me down to earth or hell, but let me take my pen. 

While I was sleeping all the stars burned to ash—
perhaps this emptiness of night is what will wake my pen. 

My mind? A Zen garden. My memories? Stones. 
And where in all the chaos is a rake? My pen. 

Break my bones, break my heart, break my spirit for his sake: 

He speaks like rushing waters; I write his words to ice.
Imprisoned where clear walls have turned opaque. My pen. 

It wasn’t till I saw his finger writing on the wall—
I knew what I could be if I’d forsake my pen.