Uninspired
the pen that used to write
has plenty of ink
but cannot write;
the paper where words used to dwell
lazily, on its bed, lies
unoccupied;
poised over the paper
is the pen,
as if to say:
"Mark my words!"
but leaks only a smudge of trash,
some scratches that won’t match.
"can’t you do anything good?"
said the paper to the pen;
the Master is watching,
thinking,
he is feeling.
the paper got thrown out;
the pen left to leak to hollowness.
their Master walked away,
his occupation already gone.
