In my darkest hour, I put pen to paper.
The pages are compacted with empty and meaningless lines.
This emptiness, sadness and disillusionment bites
and this is where my head and mind confines.
Rain trickles down the window
and its cold shadow frond innuendo.
The untenanted voices cry
but yet sing me a candied lullaby.
Who am I calling out for?
For what is this pleasure I do not deserve.
My head is simply a prisoner of my war.
This feeling is an invaluable reserve.
Something in which I intended not to preserve.
It will not be my final encore.
One will come subject to change.
A new season will indulge our epoch.
We will experience unique violence and rage.
We will be part of the new season’s wash.
I put pen to paper
Words flow as a summers watch.
I am not in need of an eraser.
Nothing can meet my match.