Only the calm and caring ears
Will admit the grieving voices of our pens
With pools sourcing from their tears
Like dogs abandoned in dens
They were never recognized as makers
Kept incarcerated they are in the wood
And sweat making up their hood
A glowing pen withers
As dryness and coldness spoil it's mood
How can our kigdom's story hold?
When the scent of this sinister plight
Traps her young bright pens into a fold
And oblivion before they even start to write.