Poet in Decline

the pains of writer's block

What's this? What's this?
This age of decadence
a pen which has since
dried all its ink
Ready to think


These words lose their sense
Lost in time, as they drip from the mind

These months pass
in apathy
The future only produces itself
Like the view of a grey sky
In death, it cries

Life as it is, won't lie

The poet must write
Serve a purpose
in a fight

Tonight, their weapon
drops in clatter

Now all at mercy
this is the matter

Just one more stanza
Just one more line
For this round
Fight until the last sound

Finish! Finish!
This now must end.