I speak not, in the dreadful dusk.

Upon questioned why, I respond,
  "It is simply not a must,"

"How will we know what's flowing
  in that rust- ed skull of yours?"

  "One thing is for sure,
    my words upon paper,
    you can trust: if you wonder-
    how, it is, that I feel. "

My voice fades off
into the dark of the night:
it's not, at all, by choice;
it, merely - away from me, takes flight:
like a blackbird singing
in the abyss of this- evening.

Oddly enough,
no grieving- has taken place.
I, simply, waved farewell-
and grabbed a pen - violently:
it's bleeding!

The ink shall bleed
one, single night:
and then to the trash,
with all my might-
I shall toss this bloodless pen!