To the hope that I have lost,
Of spilling here, a single drop,
Of worthy ink upon this page,
Why have you fled,
To better days?

In times of love you moved so freely,
Writing every word so keenly,
succinctly, yes!
Truly I, was blessed by love,
And ever since, the wounded dove.

Two years apart had rusted wit,
And aching heart had dulled my pen,
To a point,
Of wounded pride,
A vestige of such happy times.

Yet still I cling to those old ways,
My ill-begotten glory days,
Of love, hope, and fluid pen,
All forgotten,
By the  end.