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,
Even I the secondary creator,
Can make no sense.