I wish that I enticed and inspired.
That your life might no longer be mundane.
I wish to see your hand pick up the pen.
Place it on the parchment, whisk me away.
But alas, this fortune I shall not find.
Whispers of the dead-end sparks only remain.
And ever cautiously I sit and stare
at the light that may have once been for me,
at the shadows that now remain in you.