In my darkest hour, I put pen to paper.

Nothing writes.

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.

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