When the Ink Runs Dry

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Words have forsaken me

their echoes dissolving into the twilight of silence,

like songbirds relinquishing their melodies,

when the heavens forget how to sing,

and the sky itself falls mute.


Every motif I once explored,

every dream I dared to chase into the horizon,

has been distilled into a single, fragile vessel-

an inkpot named existence-

its contents now drained, hollow,

like a well exhausted by endless drought,

leaving only cracked echoes of what once was.


My hands tremble-

frail as autumn’s last, withered leaves-

clinging desperately to a weathered, trembling branch;

they no longer recall the weight of creation,

nor the tender warmth of nascent beginnings,

the fervent spark that ignited my soul.


The pen-

faithful confidant of my innermost self,

my lifelong companion through storms and calm-

slips silently from my grasp,

like a lover departing in the hush of night,

denying even the mercy of farewell,

vanishing into shadows of unspoken goodbyes.


I cannot lift it-

cannot plead for its return,

nor summon the courage to forge new words.

I stand and watch the vessel of meaning

slowly empty itself of all substance,

while the ink-worn instrument-

my trusted vessel of hope-

loses faith in my trembling hands,

doubting the voice that once breathed life into it.


The once-pristine parchment-

white as a morning prayer,

pure as dawn’s first light-

turns its face away,

shunning the touch of dreams yet unborn,

its surface cold and unyielding,

awaiting the silence that follows.


Perhaps that is why they took flight-

pen and paper together-

like migrating flocks seeking kinder seasons,

flying away from this desolate room,

this sanctuary of hush and shadow,

where unspoken poems lie dormant,

unfinished, whispering in the dark,

waiting for a voice to awaken them once more.


Yet somewhere, amidst the dust and ache,

a single, resilient drop endures-

a quiet tear of ink,

patient as hope itself-

reserving its silent strength for the moment

when my hands recall how to cradle pain,

how to shape it into poetry once again,

transforming silence into song,

despair into dawn.

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