A soft sun faded,
calmly and unmindful of
the poet beside.

Mist fumed out from those
burnt remains of the sunset
and smoked them streets up.

I grew more distraught
and more desperate to write,
to compose my next.

I walked through that fog
in search of a new poem,
and came out crawling.

As I figured why,
and as I watched, midnight came
gracefully quiet.

The deserted road,
stretched under a silent moon,
then smelled more sullen.

And the broken moon,
that peeped in from its abyss,
just grew more morose.

And this bleak journey
in search for inspiration
proved overwhelming.

And I was so lost
in some lost place for lost souls.
So lost.