Xeen

The pen is always mightier than the sword.
He who weeps in death paid the price of life unspoken for.
No words carry him on, nor any paper to recant the love he lost for spite.
It is not only the way of he who lacks faith,
But of he who sweeps into the nightfall of the journey that is non-refundable.
He has walked the last road his book will ever tell.
Once a clean slate, now etched with many highs and pitfalls
That life dirtied him with.

His plate has shown the lows, where he has sunken to his rightful place,
But also shows the forever greater, sky highs he has reached,
To soar like an eagle at dizzying altitudes.
But the knowledge that he gained throughout his life was not
From the voice of those who don’t know, but with those who have
Been kind to the unspoken sound and the unwritten law.
The knowledge he gained was powerful, as he had to
Face the last journey of his life.
The tunnel of what you know becomes vital,
And you’re experienced things have become important.
It’s the pen that conveys the unwritten sounds that tell of faraway places
And scary, but intriguing lights of those who live so far away
And on such different paths, such separate journeys.
Death is the untold journey, the only holiday unreturned
And the only place unknown in a age of super telecommunications.
The only place that is indestructibly safe from cataclysmic war and
The total self-destructiveness of the human race.
The pen tells no lies, but which of the owner.
The hand that holds the terribly destructible mode of hate and blame.

Destructive alone, but deathly together.
Cataclysmically damnation of a story untold, a journey unshared
And a voice shouting, but unheard.
The silence of those whose voice is silent in the wake
Of something they never know, not wanted to know,
But now can never convey.
It is only the known that is hated.