Pens poised, parchment positioned, Port poured,
All the essentials for a Poet's work to commence;
Mind and memory were moot in accordance to mood,
The thoughts canvass remain strangely blank;
Sad smile, Silenced sanctuary, spent strengths,
Slowly drawing the night around him tighter;
Faint fragrance of her flowery scent flounced to him,
Trembling was the hand holding the pen of black ink,
Pure parchment, pen pecked, pointless patchwork,
Smeared with the movements of the quivering hand;
Forming frightfully fragile images of fantasized scenes,
Presented like art work drawn by unseen hands;
Black palette, pen point piercing, mixing blood perfunctorily,
He fell to the cacophony of silence, deep into the night.
The soft scent slowly swirled away from the stifling night,
Leaving his canvass of black and crimson in the coldness...
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