That’s when he gave up his pen.

its reach didn’t save the dog
dying on the melting pitch

didn’t reach vent of his pen
deep enough
to save the vanishing water hen

they all were going
easy game
in the minutes
he was busy writing a poem
in the seconds
he spent naming them
in the hours
his thoughts’ idle wings
mourned their goings

he was never fair
he was never there
as they went one by one
and all his works came undone
with their blood stain!

That’s when he gave up his pen.