the words are few and fleeting
they hide outside my door
my poet's mind retreating
a hollow empty roar
i turn to quiet nights
and share old words with the dead
these lost and passing spirits
whisper kindness in my head
the sleep it comes sporatic
the Sun no longer beams
to light my inner sanctum's eye
to capture poetic dreams
i yield to blank submission
the flickering screen and stare
i feel no sense of mission
the poem tree is bare