Like a dried out pen,
you lay before me.
    Perhaps you served a purpose once,
    back in the days
    where leaves still blew
    through these Cadillac-filled streets.
Vanished and forgotten,
like a goldfish
in a bowl without food.
      You'll starve eventually
      from the poverty of your mood.
Like a torn photograph,
the image of you is scratched, incomplete,
a deflated soccer ball
lying somewhere in the street.
      
      A dried out pen
        can write no more,
           but it does not negate
             the works it wrote
                      once before.