Returning to the wholeness of life

Nib,
A pointed spot,
With an ink-store behind,
Called Pen,
Felt heavily rich for its ink
And too much burdened
And concerned thereby

Thinking and fighting a lot,
With its such feel,
In the hands it was caught,
As its world most,
It got a start
The way it was moved to write.

With, and caught within, the hands,
It reached the ocean
Of, and with its, high expectations….
Thinking to make itself
And its ink collection
A big share in the ocean.

Helpless to say
The nib and its ink-storing tube
Got floating and drowning
To nowhere in the no-where ocean

And the ink,
Spilled into the ocean,
Showed no trace
And got to be no-where.


The ocean remained
As the only no-where asylum
Of no special direction, mood and color.