50 scribbled doodles

To see which were dead and which were still usable,

Stashed in a box with some memoirs to someday place into a time capsule,

The empty vessels that once held the soul of an inksmith’s tools,

When Man has destroyed this world as we know and left it all to ruins,

Someone of a new humanity will find my box of dead pens and wonder the congruence,

Between the language they are common with,

As they behold what is to them some hieroglyphs.