Member Poem

On this pen, there are angles dangling
off the Music of the Spheres,
until the ink splatters over the bar,
and bleeds on through the rest.
 
To the Music of the Spheres,
this instrument must seem blunt,
and yet it bleeds until it's wrest
from slippery hands and palms.
 
And on this pin, angels dance—
or perhaps they're flying saucers,
where aliens whisper lines and rhymes
obsessed with linguistic powers.
 
Or perhaps they're flying saucers
looking for a perfect landing zone. . .
Obsessed with linguistic powers,
they're more than eager to converse.
 
An unkindness of ravens would oft descend
when tales and legends were wrought;
ebony feathers sank into the earth,  
an omen giving rise to portents.
 
When tales and legends were wrought,
monsters and demons ran wild;
amid portents, omens and such,
new beings were born with these spell.s
 
Monsters and demons run wild
until ink splatters over the bar.
New beings are born with a spell. . .
as on this pen, angles and angels will dance.