The pen and the ink

Every curve that it's formed,
The ink flowed with a strange dedication.
As if the calligraphic strokes meant more than art.

Every message that the nib transferred to paper,
The ink went on with its rhythm.
A silent co-operation, always taken for granted.

Every refill was like a new jolt of ecstasy.
But did the pen feel it the same way?
Or was it only doing what it was made to do?

The words, immemorable, like etchings on stone.
Fragile, yet so deep it could drown you.
And the ink thought its waves were the flood. Alas!

Alas! The pen was already drenched
In the joy of being controlled.
It had never known freedom, unlike the ink.

The ink could revolt, the pen was feeble.
The ink had a mind of its own.
The pen, after all, had only known servitude.