Unsanctified
No Pen of Mine
The old ink fades,
the scars remain.
The doorway holds
the shape of pain.
The ghosts relent,
the rooms let go.
The roots push deep
where winters froze.
A new page opens,
a match, a spark.
A low flame
reads the dark.
No trumpet sounds,
no skies divide.
The heart resumes,
unsanctified.
I chased the dawn,
I cursed the night.
I missed the seed
beneath the fight.
I turned the page,
expecting end.
The story smiled—
and wrote again.
I turned once more,
by no command—
the blank space stared,
then took my hand.
No pen of mine,
no voice to claim—
the next chapter
signed my name.
This is a poem about losing authorship of your own story—and realizing something else might be writing with you.
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I came looking for oatmeal and found gold silverware, fine china, and a damn good poem—a low flame reads the dark, the story writes again, no pen of mine, signed my name—you have chops.
This poem feels like the process. Life happens. And we sit down to write and our script is unrecognizable as our own. Well done.
I tried to be playful but this deserves more than a silly joke being 5am and all.
You held a four beat pattern except when you switched to three. The only outlier is a new page opens at 5 syllables…
I wish I could write with meter and rhyme. Mine all come out like the cat and the hat. This is poetry.
Beautifully written poem. Beautiful message that it holds as well. Such refreshment to a parched soul.