Ink
How long ago I found
the human heart a fickle flirt:
here one day, then there,
then gone.
How recently have I felt
the seconds slide sideways
into corpse-still past:
useless.
The charm of mornings past
melt on freezing nights
when the even the stars retreat
in on themselves.
Frustration seems the only ever-present friend
and, in the end, the only ally
'gainst the tyranny
of darkness.
Would that I could curl up
on a period of a page
and sleep -- slowly sink
into it's all-consuming
ink
