The sun goes down, I sit with my pen
In the darkness of my den.
There in the pot is the ink,
All that’s left is for me to think.
So here I am at the table –
Thoughts shaky and unstable,
My nib is sharpened to write
And the paper is white
The nib is in the ink;
The ink, the nib did drink,
Yet the paper remains white.
Only the widening stain is its blight.
Shall I write of flowers –
That withers with the hours?
Or of men who care not for their kind
Planting seeds of evil in their mind?
I know not, so I wait,
While my mind tries to create.
The sun is coming up again –
And still I hold my pen in vain!
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.