The Writer and the Blood Inked Quill
By: Adam M. Snow
The candle flickered by a passing gentle breeze;
my quill dries up leaving not I at ease.
My words upon page now left to hang;
a reader's disappointment, now a writer's pang.
Misery held me as time stood still,
my heart has fallen because my mind is ill.
I stare at blank page as all words elude me,
I can't help to wonder, “How could this be?”
Torment follows as night falls to dread;
my ink once black now turns blood red.
I wrote my soul upon each page,
as time ticks by with every age.
The words itself scream an agony scream;
I, the writer without a dream.
But what bedevils myself to write,
elude me once more with the fall of night.
My nightly whimper comes with a toll,
my life upon the page, now bearing my soul.
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