The tears fall and mottle the parchment
there is no ink to run
to smear
or distort
The stain of shapes, letters, words
are no longer present
to be deformed
or washed away
The instrument with which to write
no longer has use,
is no longer held
with such care,
such grace
The desk that supports the weight
of my futility
has now crumbled
in despair
The chair that held me
refuses to bear the weight
of my hollowness any longer
I've left behind
the room that is so empty
except for a distant echo
of thoughts
cultivated,
cherished
Only the view from the window remains the same
yet I do not stare in wonder
or for inspiration
I turn and walk away from it all.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 5:44 PM UTC
The tears fall and mottle the parchment
there is no ink to run
to smear
or distort
The stain of shapes, letters, words
are no longer present
to be deformed
or washed away
The instrument with which to write
no longer has use,
is no longer held
with such care,
such grace
The desk that supports the weight
of my futility
has now crumbled
in despair
The chair that held me
refuses to bear the weight
of my hollowness any longer
I've left behind
the room that is so empty
except for a distant echo
of thoughts
cultivated,
cherished
Only the view from the window remains the same
yet I do not stare in wonder
or for inspiration
I turn and walk away from it all.
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