, , , , , , , , ,

The pen is dry,
The ink, disappeared
The last line on the page
So imperfectly smeared

Clumsy fingers,
Gnarled and bent
No longer hold words
Forgotten lament

Countless hours wasted
All, for a couple of thoughts
Illegible, at best
Oh, but it was for naught

She poured her heart out
Every broken, shattered piece
The pain and anguish
Gave this child no release

Another place, perhaps
She may have found her way
But not in this realm of torture
She’d have to wait another day


Β©2021 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved
Image by AnjaπŸ€—πŸ™ from Pixabay