Blue ink, that won’t let me sleep,

Pours between my fingers,

Onto old paper,


Crumbling, like old bread left out in the sun to dry,

Unwanted, even by birds.


But, I seem to have nothing to say,

No pattern to draw.

My hands have formed you within a pen,

But what now?


I see beauty, but my inspiration is speechless.


It’s time we spoke again,

Traded a word or two.

But even new paper seems to fail,

To coax you out,

In anything but a delirious outpouring,

Of which,

Even I the secondary creator,

Can make no sense.


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