Her Pen

In the clutch of her hand,
A tool, no broader than a twig
Bleeds - stark ink on white.

With each stroke, the page
Winces, bearing silent witness
To the labor of her heart.

A scrim of words, etched
With the precision of a surgeon,
Or the delicate touch of a thief.

In the canvas of her lines,
A landscape of sorrow and joy,
Mapped in the cartography of sentences.

Here, agony whittled to its essence,
There, happiness thinned to a whisper,
Each pared down to bare-faced clarity.

What alchemy she wields!
To sculpt in space the weight
Of the heart's unspoken tremors.

With her pen — an artist;
Charting the deep,
Capturing the fleeting,

The difficult, the ephemeral,
In sentences lucid as a mountain stream,
Clear as sorrow, concise as a knife's edge.