9. FOUNTAIN PEN
I scribbled innumerable lines of literature with it,
it was still ready to execute a umpteenth phrases more,
being as strong as an ox when it came to decoding thoughts into verse,
even when tested at bizarre limits of endurance.
i sketched glowing peaks of mountain basking in the golden Sun,
weaving articulate outlines of the encroaching shadows,
it yielded to the faintest of my caress; unleashing dark forms with fountain ink,
a true stalwart engulfing me in the times of difficulty.
i even used it for scraping minute blotches of dirt from my ear,
delicately tickling the inner soft skin with insipid strokes,
it obliged pathetically to whatever i did,
didn’t shed a tear from its eye; nor developed a retaliatory hole in its heart.
i filled it with surplus amounts of colored ink,
sprinkling the same with lots of glee on the faces of my counterpart mates,
transforming them into jocular clowns,
with an awe-inspiring caricature of white skin with opalescent paint.
i kept it well stuffed within the interiors of my waistcoat pocket,
lived with it for all night and Sunlit day,
it had fulfilled my insatiable desire to explore the world,
assisted me create the animate;and already burried,
i hardly skipped exiting my place of dwelling,
without the reassuring comfort of my chrome tipped fountain pen.