Writing old and writing dead,
Writing here what’s left unsaid,
To say that I could never write,
And put an end to it’s delight.

From hopes and dreams I’ve made my case,
Weak and weary fit to break,
And from those ashes nothing flies,
Not a Phoenix within sight.

But I keep writing just the same,
To cling and cradle dying flame,
Born of love, a hope, a dream,
A tired dove now out of steam.

And who could blame the holding on,
To tired fame when muse is gone,
No halo, prayer, or feathered wing,
To hear these dying hopes and dreams.