Death to a poet

It happened in the most
silent hour of the night
she sat at her desk
ready to live, ready to write

she couldn't find life
as an alibi to fulfill
so if she desired happiness
she had to turn to her quill

ink upon the paper
scratches and letters on the page
her only excuse to escape
life's dreary, sullen cage

trapped inside her room
free within the lines
writing upon her paper
consumed in form and rhyme

until one last word
was introduced to its end
she ran out of life
as the ink had left her pen

she started to cry
until she wept herself to death
cursing the ink-less pen
with her only last breath