|Ink years torn
||[Jan. 23rd, 2015|11:38 pm]
Pen, paper, ink I miss you.|
Ideas you have fallen away.
Toil, and sweat on my brow, as gravel covers me.
Hope a failing things as the years draw and quarter me tearing at my strings.
Falling away because of a loose string.
Will I ever have the time to question again or breathe letters to words.
Shall I ever breathe into line again, and find something in the scrawled augury?