I would be a quill if I were a writing utensil.
Letting my thoughts take flight like the bird it came from,
Strong enough to form a point and dramatically visual.
Taking steps and spins across the parchment like a dance,
Waiting expectantly for the next breathtaking dip,
I yield to my leading hand to give rhythm and rhyme a chance
Old fashioned and born in a gentler age, I remember
A time before computers and blackberries with IM.
Life was slower and letters were written on real paper.
Now, quills are used on formal occasions of importance,
The signing of treaties and agreements between nations.
It must show that documents need plenty of patience.
When maintained and kept trim, I write with a clean, clear line,
But neglected, the lines are dull, blurred and hard to define