Writer's Quill, Whispers Still

The quill, once held by hand so strong, Now rests upon a dusty shelf, Forgotten tales, where they belong, No longer whispered to itself. Ink, once a wellspring, dark and deep, Has dried to flakes, a shadowed stain, The writer sleeps, a peaceful sleep, But though the hand may write no more, The words still dance on memory's shore, In hearts that felt the stories soar. A legacy of ink and quill, Of dreams ignited, hearts set to thrill, The writer's quill, whispers still.