Nom De Plume

I feel the futility after decades of my fingers flitting like dragonflies over the keys my once hopeful heart shriveled and shrunken as a plum into a prune Shakespeare and Miller Marlowe and Pinter will never again pick up the plume to pen another poem or play yet they live on today while my words wither in the womb Stillborn they are silently whisked away unread without a funeral to the tomb