I have nothing left to write
My words are spent,
My ink runs dry,
Words stumbled and spilled over,
Chained to a silent full stop.
My story has been cut short
Snatched away like reason in a mob
Or lost like a whisper in a storm.
It was not a pretty tale
But it was mine
And now I have none.
Now at night my desk is cold,
My mind throbs with phantom pain
My heart has said its all.
Now when talk dissolves into a hush
And time demands to ebb and slow
I gather up my hurt and go to sleep
With fragments of ideas my dreams generate
Now that I cannot create.

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