The quill was poised to write.
Like a cobra ready to strike.
Ink on the vellum.
Thick like venom.

The pen held steady, to write words that are adored.
Words that pierce like a sword.
The ink does not fade.
Like blood on the blade.

Now we have a word processor.
With its own spell checker.
But nothing beats the paper and pen.
Like the cobra and sword, leaving marks now and again.