You’d think I’d run out of ideas To keep writing Exhaust the last fume Of creative igniting But come gloom and doom Through the roles I’m reprising The constant Invariable Is revising Disguising no longer What made me this way It’s as natural to me As a child at play Its intricacy Formed By simplicity’s Hand And it’s guided along By emotion’s command Yet unplanned Like a pregnancy In love conceived And reflected upon Like a widow bereaved When I once again leave, Venture on, Bid adieu To the words overdue For the few I write you