1.26 am. I am empty.

I am the dried up ocean;
I am ashes, not stardust.
There is no supernova inside me,
Waiting to combust.

I keep chasing paragraphs
but my words - blown away by the wind.
No amount of time can resurrect them
This pen is running out of ink.

What I seek - will it come
if I think in another language?
Perhaps if I go to sleep
I can write another page.

3.57am. I am (still) empty.