The Writer

 

This pen feels lifeless in my hand tonight,

black blood just refuses to flow,

I cannot form the words just right,

soiling this page of virgin snow.

 

Scattered about are some older works,

phrases and words I scarcely know,

ideas that twist like bejeweled dirks,

but tonight this flesh proves fallow.

 

One single word, the image forms,

pulsing pen scribes to and fro,

free will refuses to conform,

my hand now can only follow.

 

Stoic

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