Just sitting at the computer
Eyes glazed over with a vague stare,
he sits with his head in hands.
“Its hard,” he says.
As a freshly sharpened pencil lay still
on a stack of crisp, white paper before him.
“Can’t think of anything to write about.”
An unemotional void had left him
nothing moving, nothing to feel.
Certainly nothing to write about.
“The poetry is gone. It must have died,
probably a long time ago. Maybe it passed on
while I was busy dong other things.”
He exclaimed as he thought to himself.
He glances up staring at the bare wall,
no one is around, the room appears to have been
empty for some time, possibly years.
However the apparent lack of audience doesn’t
hinder his thoughtful conversation.
“ I must be gone. I must have died,
probably a long time ago. Maybe I passed on
while I was busy doing other things.”
He said to himself.
Then with an odd air of certainty, he yells
“This must be Hell! There’s no Devil,
no burning red lake of fire. Just life here
with no emotions stirring, no hate, no jealousy,
no love, no feeling at all.”
Succumbing to the strength of pure exhaustion,
his head sank back into his hands.
No poetry was written. No emotions were painted
with the soft touch of led on crisp, white paper.