Annabelle

All his ink wells ran dry From uncertain thought His nib dripping with ink from within, The crimson script full of regret From what has and has not been. Grief stricken eyes Nails turning to dust Hair falling with every turn of the page, He reeked of whiskey and the troubles it brought The smell worsened as she started to age. As the hour glass ticked The months blew away Times ocean began to swell But not a soul came through at anytime Looking for his sweet so sweet Annabelle.