There is nothing left to write.
The words on the page lie polished and perfected.
The ink - locked into the paper;
A contented prisoner -
Dries in the bright sunlight.
The sprawling scrawl across the page
Is the writer’s soul: laid bare as
A newborn; a rosy thorn
Drawing passionate blood
From its triumphant creator.
The words cease to flow. The black
Night – the end of the light - encompassing all.
And the reader shall know;
It shall course through his veins and he shall ache.
For he knows in his broken heart that there is nothing left to write.
March 2010.
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