I’m dry.
The pen is full.
It sits impotent on the chaste paper.
So many words slosh within it, yet no movement marks the time.
Because I’m empty.
Despite the wet nib.
I can’t think of prompt nor pandering.
The gods are safe from my teasing this night, let them rest.
I have nothing.
Ink promises everything.
Too many worries have sapped away the buds of fun.
Too many memories prevent me from making another.
I’m dry.
My veins are too.
I’ve searched for places where the leeches haven’t fed.
Where I could drip blood onto the paper and pay the tinseled due.
My thoughts are empty.
Despite the triggering flood.
I can’t write the comforting words of support you wish me to say.
All I can say is to survive, you must devour the dark as it devours you.
Ah. There’s the pulse.
Did you feel it?
Dark and sticky like a wound undecided about healing.
I’ll try a speech another day. No more words now. Only action.