Each day, he'd sit
quietly at his desk,
sometimes,
for hours on end,
waiting for his
muse to return.

It was almost as if,
he were in some type
of trance,seemingly flirting
with the lingering shadows
of his melancholy, which often
haunted him and even taunted
him at times.

For they knew,
of all the things
in this wretched world,
his greatest desire was to write

In fact,
all he'd ever wanted
was to be a writer

Unable to embrace
the stifling stillness
often found in the echoes
of one's solitude,
he eagerly awaited the call
from the silent keys of his typewriter
sitting idly on his desk

A mere relic, collecting dust
in the shadows of the morning Sun

Oh, how he longed for them
to summon his wanting fingers
once more

How he longed to lovingly caress
each and every key

Joyously filling the quiet pockets
of air with the sweet and haunting melody of their timeless pitta patter

Oh, how he longed...
to make them sing again.

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