The Quill Of The Poetess

Her quill lies in its felt-lined snapcase
Parchment lie adjacent to the inkwells
The blotter is free of spills or overstrokes
Her parlor rug is untrodden

She's writing in the skies
She's chasing a poem
She's burning in the novas
She's never coming home

Living on stardust
Drinking waters of ragged moons
Licking the tails of comets
Lying amongst galaxies

When the Poetess returned to her parlor
Her quill lie on her desk
The blotter was stained
And the ink of a thousand sunrises
written in black
darkened the room

She folded the parchment
Sealed it with gold
Sent it to all of us
And set to sleep