Still

As the poet reached for his diary, 

A pen case fell, right in the front. 

Too busy, yes he would admit, 

Still deep, he craved for the touch of it!

If you are a great imaginer, 

A brand new pen might be your guess

But no, it is his old friend,

Steel cap, black refill with worn out dress

Always there with him, it let the ink spurt out,

When with a glow his words smiled.

Old mate, you may call it, helped him follow

his passion when his mind full of poems, went wild....

The scratches, slight but were visible 

Tarnish could be seen on the cap

Still, in the worn body, 

A sensation of rebirth he could tap.

Maybe, new pens took it's place,

Still, no one can overshadow its space 

In the heart of the poet, I say

Though ,it's away from the poet in solace....