Fruitless Ink

My pen was once filled with all the possibilities of seed, enlightenment, even therapeutic denial but now it's though she's wordless from all those verses malady sucked from her bones when marrow was too thin and hope was a loveless man who left via the white horse My theory is: heart truly believed poems were the wings to soul's freedom, but I suppose it was only a metaphor and poetry never really grows it's own skeleton or feathers or can even soar for that matter (yet somehow, it flew away from me)