Thursday, March 10, 2011

WHEN INSPIRATION FLIES AWAY


The sun goes down, I sit with my pen
In the darkness of my den
There in the pot is the ink
All that's left is for me to think

So here I am at the table
Thoughts shaky and unstable
My nib is sharpened to write
And the paper is white

The nib is in the ink
The ink, the nib did drink
Yet the paper remains white
Only the widening stain is its blight

Shall I write of flowers
That withers with the hours?
Or of men who care not for their kind
Planting seeds of evil in their mind

I know not, so I wait
While my mind tries to create
The sun is coming up again
And still I hold my pen in vain

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