In a room where shadows gather,
a poet sits, pen in hand,
but the ink runs dry,
the words fall silent.
The muse, once a beacon,
now a distant memory,
fades into the abyss,
leaving the poet alone,
bereft of inspiration,
a soul adrift.
His verses, once vibrant,
now lie dormant,
ink on yellowed pages,
tales of love, loss, and time.
Each line a fragment of his heart,
each stanza a piece of his soul,
yet no eyes find them,
no hearts feel their pulse.
The muse has fled,
taking with it the spark,
the fire that once ignited
his every thought,
his every dream.
Despair takes its place,
a shadow creeping in,
tightening its grip,
as hope slips away,
like sand through fingers,
leaving behind a hollow shell.
He recalls the days
when words flowed like rivers,
when each poem was a lifeline,
a bridge to the world.
Now, his pen rests,
still and silent,
a relic of what once was,
a testament to a passion
that has withered and died.
In solitude, he makes his choice,
a final act, a quiet surrender.
The world around him continues,
unaware of the loss,
unseeing of the depth
of his silent pleas,
his unspoken cries.
He slips away,
a shadow among shadows,
leaving behind
only the faintest echo
of his presence.
The stars may mourn,
the moon may weep,
but his words remain,
etched in the fabric of time.
Each verse a whisper,
a ghostly reminder
of a poet's heart,
a soul that chose to die.
No one reads his lines,
no one hears his voice,
yet his spirit lingers,
hidden in the ink,
a silent cry,
a haunting sigh,
a testament to the pain
that no one saw,
to the loneliness
that no one felt.
In death, his words survive,
a haunting echo, a tale alive,
floating in the ether,
waiting for someone,
anyone,
to find them,
to hear the silent scream,
to feel the depth
of his sorrow and despair.
The poet is gone,
his heart stilled,
but his words,
his verses,
live on,
a timeless song
of pain and beauty,
a legacy of a soul
that once burned bright,
now a distant star,
fading into the endless night.