A book unopened,
A page unturned,
A pen lying listless,
As the days run past,
An overworked mind,
Chaotic and stressed,
Trying to make sense,
Of a bleak blankness,
Of a poem unwritten,
A thought incomplete,
Of life swishing past,
And of jumbled memories,
Dusted to life,
Of laughter quelled,
Of life unbecoming,
Twisting into a non entity.
