Another day the quill lies alone
A flickering flame above is all but gone
Scribbles on the back of a sheet
Pondering if all this talk of love
And this yearning for it entirely its own
Or some socially inflicted addiction
A restriction on feelings for loneliness
By this unwelcome relationship,
That between solitude and emptiness
But who should fill this sheet?
For what texture and hue does love imbue?
Can ink and blood meld?
The quill stares wondering upon the sheet
If its love will run fast or infuse slow?