I once held a pen in a calloused hand,
a pen which I compared to you.
With that pen a story was wrought,
a page of my life through and through.

Much like the dying sun,
there is brilliance before it sets.
With my heart I'd say it was the same for me,
the page was as beautiful as it gets.

I wrote and I wrote,
I wrote till my hand bled.
The pen; never-ending as it was,
brought the page to life when the book was dead.

The pen gave birth to feelings,
so ethereal, yet so tangible.
Feelings never written in the book again,
every other page jumbled and illegible.

Unlike the previous pages,
this one wasn't scribbled upon.
This was a piece of endless art,
crafted by that pen each and every waking dawn.

The pen moved, it glided across,
writing, shaping  those words.
And as the page filled with her,
It was then I realized what really hurts.

It was the fear, it was the scratch,
writing the closure of the beginning.
I would fear the ink was running out,
it would seem like the page was already ending.

And for all the joy it brought,
and in all my persistent revelry,
I had soon forgotten of the ink's transience,
and of my malicious ecstasy.

It spread, oh lord it did,
like a poison in these veins.
The page soaked too much of the ink,
it ruined itself to the pen's disdain.

The page became fuller,
with the wan and wax of the moon.
Even when I would not write,
sprawled across were pretty words of doom.

And as it so ended,
with the page having no more space,
The pen, untimely, was forced to stop,
with the book shut on my grave, derived of any trace...