Today The Fountain Pen Cried

Today the fountain pen cried,
On white paper,
She shed her black tears...
In the path sequence of the lines,
All the consonants ran.

He put them in their place with sound,
The owner of the pen is the eyes in the writer;
Lips moved, parted,
The tongue came out and translated it onto the stage,
And...the ears listened to a "story".

In the blood flowing in the veins,
A rush began,
The current... reached the brain;
Shuddered heart metasori,
Trembling feet, cold hands,
The whole body shivered, as if an earthquake.

Eyelashes opened and closed frequently,
The valve of a fountain of interpretation,
He was released to his freedom.
Tears poured from cheeks...
To an inkwell on the table.;

The inkwell is very confused,
A rush of color inside...
At the end of the dark supremacy,
While declaring himself a hero,
The vicious surge sank to the bottom and stopped.

A red sea formed inside...
The fountain pen plunged into the inkwell,
He took a deep breath and went outside.
And... with a shaky groan,
He wrote the title of the article...
"Loneliness is called DEATH!"