Poetless

Blank pages strewed high on my desk in pain, For now, I heard the squelch of death again, It had echoed from my emptied inkwells, As dying words crept from a mind that quells, Pilfered hands scrawl at piles for hopeful hints, A gleam, as much as a sign to convince, A broked stopped clock reminds that time does not, And a muted bird still has what its got, Rambled eyes of a place in disguises, Shadows grow as my heart vaporizes, My rhythmless moves just proved my resolve, I heard the squelch of death again, evolve. 2019 September 14