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.
Copyright © Vincent Howard