And here we are, back at scribbling on a blank page,
me and some broken dreams, long dead;
more than one, decomposed down to their skeletons.
The heap of crumpled pages grow like algaes
around the banks of a moribund pool;
the blackish water nourishing that growth is me!
Bathing in the moonlit breeze of sweet March,
the astray dogs grow silent for a while,
relieved of their worries of staying alive,
until their memories, with a vengeance, return.
And here we are, trying to scribble out the blankness of a page –
some broken feathers and an inkwell, almost dry.
Perhaps some pages are meant to remain that way
as this empty soul without a purpose to its wretched life!