I can count on my finger tips
Each paper thrown away.
Scrawling of inadequacy
Momentarily plagued with
Stunned fingers.
Decayed and Crippling
I throw about the crumbled papers
From one side of the desk to the other.
Searching for a word, a rhyme
Anything to create this dismal
Letter I’ve been trying to convey.
The room fills with an
Aroma of freshly ground coffee.
The darkness deludes me.
My hands tremble to pick it up
But my old feeble body
Wishes to not work, again.
It spills
I feel I should be spouting
Off nursery rhymes.
Oh you poor lunatic I shout!
Old and decrepit much like fallen dreams
Of the glorified youth of society.
Deity calls me.
The clouds push aside
The canopy opens like a sheet of
Paper new and fresh without
Coffee stain spilled on them.
The dial of the seismograph
Starts up again beyond its old
decrepit years.
Nemesis of skeletal remains,
Remnants of dirty washed out
Forgotten dreams.
A pen sitting untouched
The hand barely made a mark.
