The pen I hold with such grip,

Trembles!

Its ink blots in loneliness.

Its open mouth dried in waiting,

No more thoughts unspoken, it seems to say.

Pardon me, my love.

For this pen I danced with for so long,

Now rusts by the second.

My fingers are refusing to gallop

Along the powdered surface so suddenly.

This paper infront of me,

Is nothing but a cold

And damned winterstorm.

Blowing a calmed bitterness over my life.

In this solitude, I am weak.

I am nothing, it seems.

Just another being, with lessened promise.

A poemless poet, pouring tears of thoughtless ink.

And yet, I stay unmoved,

Resting in contentment between

These phrases and words,

Going back and forth with a metal tip,

Yes! Somehow,

Finding the peace amidst this desparation.

For I know, once I ink

The very last letter

Of this piece,

You'll be there,

with a teary acceptance,

Holding no judgement,

Waiting lovingly to grab my pen

And stamp the punctuation

To dusk my season in poetry.