My pen is a highway. All are welcome to drive. All are welcome to take both curves and rise. Feel the sunshine. Love the cloudless skies. Should you require a new destination, it will permeate and spin, until that dream place is whence you arrive in. Such is the magic of the pen, for its soul ports to the place humans are made in. Should you be still of that cloth, of kindness, of gentility, of charity, it will carry on even if your engine fails. So, be merry and bright! Let your heart take flight. To the good, to the soulful, the pen is a patient protector.
Centurion dreams are as beautiful as the poet's pen; Emperor dreams are of the horrific of glories of the sword.
You know, the poets have no pen... because they simply write their own exit.
The escape route from hell is carved by the poet's pen, those mighty silver-bladed words.
A pen is for chickens, a coup is for the morally bankrupt, the poet instead has their corner where all are free to listen as much as they wish, always free to take their leave.