Almost a writer

Stale black ink once radiant
Its luster brave and bold
Found hidden in an old desk drawer
Beside the fountain pen I thought I sold

The sword’s blade dull and broken
The sacred blood run cold
A hero cowered in a corner
A gambler forced to fold

And there beneath the pen and ink
The lines still gasped and groaned
Remnants of an unfinished story
The pristine silk unsewn

The ink spots almost useless
Appearing lifeless, stiff and blue
Interred within the constraints
Of the words I once knew

Once I wrote my lines on paper towels
While hemorrhaging on every page
Then soaking up the spilled and sour
And spit them out in fits of rage

But alas the currents been diverted
I no longer feel it in my hands
To where gardens turn to concrete
And only writers understand

But then the muse grows angry
The once silent shouts within
And with pen poised above paper
The fire roars to life again

Yes, one day I’ll be a writer
With words witty, wild and wise
And headlines will applaud me
And spotlights blind my eyes

But today I’ll climb the steps once more
And wait for the 8:15.
And spend the next eight hours
Reliving youthful dreams.