My pen, where is my pen? A dance of thoughts,
Seeking the modern quill, lines are left unwritten,
Lost is the prose, without pen, I can not compose.
Yearning for the pen and the voyage of ink,

I have a fancy quill, a work of art,
Crafted from glass and metal, a treasure.
It is a relic of elegance, poised to convey
thoughts, yet it sits behind glass, on display.

Amidst the clutter, in the crevices of time,
my partner in creation, my pen, I can not find,
The glass quill in the stillness of ornate grace,
dreams of writing tales, and poetic potential.

The poet’s lament, My pen, where is my pen?
Whispers of verses, now silent and thin,
While the inkwell cradles, a midnight hue,
Yearning for pages, and adventures anew.

I seek in desk and drawer, for want of a pen,
Oh, elusive muse, poet’s treasure,
A symphony of words, a lyrical play,
dormant they lie in my mind, this day.

A pen, a kingdom for a pen!
I seek a reunion of words on paper,
From the quill, a silent plea echoes in the air,
Use me in your creation, your thoughts declare.

With every stroke, let inspiration flow,
Unleash the quill, and let creativity grow.
For in the union of hand and quill,
Lies the magic of stories, waiting still.

So heed the call, break the delay,
Pick up the quill, and let it have its say.
In the dance of ink, let dreams replay,
For your fancy quill awaits its day.

I concede, and take the quill in hand.
my poet’s verse will live again.
I have my quill and ink will flow, now-
My paper, where is my paper?