Where's My Pen?

Many ask the direction of my pen
As the pen have grown quiet
And the restlessness not felt again
In the rustling of wicked winds.

The pen have made journeys
Ranging from wicked waves
Down the corridors of the evil
The pen that continually sailed on turbulent pedestals

All grown silent
Her echoes now dead nor ancient
Without a trace of her ink

Many ask her where about
If the ink have *faded or now dried*

Many ask about my pen
But what good does a pen
That causes rustling 
Without tornadoes
What good serves a pen that just touches without scratching

Perhaps the pen made to rest
With her glory days long past
Perhaps the pen held with new vigour
To fight a new battles that matter

Femi Xplosionz
08067890524
FemiXplosionz@gmail.com