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.