Under the indescribable skies
standing, wondering at the incomplete account
of the stories untold
the flow of thoughts will stay at birth
the bond with the muse is lost;
Standing, stumbling upon the unbelievable earth
the words die a prenatal death
and the case of not so easy breaths,
the tales of souls of every description
or definition,
the unmade rhymes on a rose-petal,
the unsung songs on the rain-birds
locked up in a blood clot
somewhere inside the brain
or the veins of heart
what is there is the sense of loss
for the pen uncapped
and the dried ink
and the page left blank…
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Haven’t I painted my all felt void?
Elegy On The Dried Ink!
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