A Lament

   

Taking up the pen in my trepid hand,
I etch the whirlpool of raw emotions,
swirling through my mind but the page remains
unscathed save a few scratches, here and there!

   

Perhaps the ink has run dry at long last,
like an artery that has lost the heart,
no throbbing or pulsating from behind,
like a river stopped by the winter’s wind!

    

Well, there is no one else to blame but me,
was it not I who gambled with my Poetry!
So, my Muse with a broken heart did leave,
what we want is the thing we ought to give!

    

None can hurt me unless I let them to
you cannot fill a cup, which is already full!

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