The face of that desk.

The wooden long desk,
on top stands,
a table lamp so old
and a pen stand so bold.
Oh, you expected the feather and ink pot scene,
that’s an era far before it seems.
A spiral calendar with a clock embedded.
Some nostalgic dark frames.
An ash tray burnt in those nights
when the pen either couldn’t scribble or race too fast to calm those thoughts.
That’s the face of that desk
where blank pages inked
and stories travelled length and breadth of the globe.
The desk now might be holding some digital displays,
but the writer within remains the same.