The Drying of the Ink

No longer at desk the typewriter has been given it's final rest. As he cant recall the day or year. The once strong mind is closed the body but a museum or tribute to what once was. he his home but locked within himself. Vist's from thoose who once knew the man are like people viewing a body at a wake. he calls from within the shell for for release. Yet his lips will not move his voice never sounds. Inside he burns for the chance to run as the river chases the sea. To be the man they never knew and the one he could admire and both despise. The page sits in typewriter like a willing eager lover in bed. Waitting in stockings that cling to delicate thigh. the tears escapes it's minds prison. He thirsts for it like a drunk for that morning drink of whiskey waitting hands held togather trying to keep from shaking. He sits as a painter without hand. watching the most beautiful sunset fade without a chance of ever capturing this moment. The ink is drying he feels it everyday. Soon he hopes like the dust that does gather he will be swept away.