Dry not, my pen, nor bite the dust before my time,
you’re the nepenthe to my agonies, the breath to my life.
Dry not, my pen, nor leave me to fend for myself,
your nib is my sword, your ink my solitary help.
Dry not, my pen, nor grow weary of my imprint,
I am what I am, solely, by your dint.
Dry not, my pen, this world is cruel to me,
and only in your words, is my spirit set free.
Stay with me forever,
and even after that, and again,
I am all I write, so dry not,
dry not, my pen.
© Isha Garg