A clear trail left in trance is how I shall form words,
Elegantly, majestically casting them onto a blank paper, focused on creating poetry, a time recording friend has gone missing,
Now the lonely sound of my scratching against the thin paper, lead by transience of its decay is the only sound we can hear.
What once was a world to create fantasy has drowned, black as ink into the darkness of a never ending tale, time and time again,
As if to hold on to embers, scared to lose all light when the last one goes out, for a cold, uninspired, spiriling dark of ones mind,
With the mission to accompany her throughout each and every writing as it unfurls, comes to life and simply blossoms in pride,
As I see a smile cast on her face, the determination to keep going alightens a flame, but unceartenty overcomes my weakened body,
When the trace of my mark begins to fade, I wonder how long it will be, until there is nothing more to say, do or think about,
Even if this dreamlike tale of endless, ongoing poetry were never to end or falter, never to be distorted nor interrupted;
Even if you don't have to die in a dream,
one is bound to wake up sooner or later,
As a tired hand carelessly, roughly, lays me down,
I wonder how many poems one can write,
Before running out of the ink of the mind.
Written from the perspective of my pen.