The Hidden

I hear the pen callin’
The paper silently weeps,
Their author is missin’

But the knitting needles gloat,
The hand that writes has been hidden,
Transformed into the hand that knits.

Siren sings of the pattern that if discovered will end the strife between pen and needle, ending paper’s anguish.
I search and search and neither pen nor needle or paper’s plight can help me figure the hidden pattern of life.

(Never realized my knitting needles were petty and jealous)

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