Ink

The ink in my pen
has begun to stall.
There are days when I think
I’m not a poet at all.

My timing has gone;
the rhyming all wrong.
Imagination has fled
to a permanent bed.

Beneath all the clutter
sporadically,
a flutter
a stirring of grey matter,
a whirring,
a splatter
of ink on the walls
from a pen that
consistently palls.

Sepia fading
degrading.
Soon, I think
the ubiquitous Quink
becoming
invisible
INK

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VMM2008