The Quill

in the darkest hours of 

the night, in my loneliness I 

question: the source of my

inspiration, the bane of my 

existence, whether it’s 

blessing or curse there is 

no use in resistance. 

it is the quill that I hold, 

all mine—without a 

choice, it heightens my 

little voice, for all of the 

world to see, and finds 

the flame within me that 

the verse of poets ignites, 

burning fast without a 

fight and lets madam 

fickle speak, she says:  

“as long as you weep, 

and tears flow from your 

eyes, your feather will 

always rise, to spill your 

broken heart’s ink.”

Flash Issue 13