candles cry onto cold glass
as a grain of sand drowns in its brethren
black ink slowly turns to vapour
a quill hovers a breath away from the canvas
its tip poisoned with possibility
and its trunk with fuel
not a whisper in the air hung unfocused
as the eyes in the dark stares blank
as a single drop of ink
then un-grips the sharp metal ledge
and its blood spilled on the unstained white
nothing... they said
as they walked away from the work
they had not yet begun.