A piece of paper was found by a pen to write on, 

With the ink of color of invisibility. 

The paper with every color except, 

The colors the pen was painted with. 

The ink, invisible, imprinted on the paper, 

Served nothing but vanity.

To the pen it was a whole new world, 

Which only it could dwell in.

The paper got painted by the world, 

With paints that didn't remotely symbolize it,

The pen still kept on writing on it, 

With the ink invisible it was filled with.

Inside every layer of the foreign colors, 

The paper got painted with,

The pen never let the truth, 

Of the paper slip away from its memory.

A slight wrinkle on the paper fills the pen, 

With an invisible ink of agonizing misery.

The pen would never know what the right ink is, 

To write on the paper with delicacy.

Yet it keeps moving in ways unknown, 

Making symbols cunningly.

No matter how many layers,

The paper gets subtly enclosed in.

The pen would never disremember, 

The colors it found the paper in.

No matter how many creases engulf, 

The paper's glamorous shapeliness,

As an eternal companion, 

A fellow unknowingly forbidden,

The pen would never give up the job, 

Of writing with the ink of color of invisibility.