Sorrow greeted me with his pain,
the morning felled the day with rain;
held my attention with deep visions of foggy day’s of past.
My poetic soul dipped in grunge,
as sorrow stroked my pain.
Ink faded on yellowed parchment,
tattered at the eadges
from decay and dust.
My thoughts slowly withered away, like all poetic thoughts,
time takes it’s plot dipping into the inkwell of inspiration.
All a poet can do is pray
writer’s block doesn’t take away our inked felled dreams.