The quill is bound to some black string 

The string is adorned with thorns so blunt 

You could’ve sworn it used to crown roses; 

Some black string was not a peculiar sight 

As the quill sighed at the shadowed marionette 

The silhouette that is the sight: seems ripe, 

Though for the quill it is anything but fresh 

For it knew the black string binding feeling: 

Sensational, as it is vicious and for the hunt, 

Brooding, to an almost “too” level in fact; 

Much so, that the quill again sighed at the sight 

On the actual sign of some black string, 

For it is just as sensational as it felt then, 

For it was just brooding on too much as it was then, 

For it hurts, maybe less, than it was then, 

And this “then” was three decades too recent; 

Now, the bound quill was feeling its binds 

Tightening in grasp, like a grappler’s or wrestler’s 

As the quill sighed a final time, like it did then: 

The three decades too recent became one reality, 

Too new, too peculiar, yet vicariously similar, 

While it is trapped by the same black string.