My paper grows thirsty for ink
Derived from the slim glass of a dipping pen
When the paintbrush of literature touches its canvas
My paper sits poised, its thirst now quenched
My pen grows cold and lonely
Craving some warmth from a scribe's firm grasp
When I imbue it with the substance of creation
I imbue it too with bliss to last
I grow terribly tired
Of managing works upon works upon works
When I gaze at my two greatest friends
The danger of solitude is less dire
