Taut, this scratchy rope that binds me,
held captive as lost wordless freight.
Tiring thoughts that exhausted me
and sealed my doom, my scribing fate.

A wick does still the walking eve
into the dark of midnite drear.
I gnash and quietly I grieve
for naught be a syllable near.

My listless quill lies silently
upon the cool bare dusty floor.
I’ve whispered barely audibly
as an answer cries“nevermore”.

Nevermore?I pine in my binds
crouched low within the lifeless scow.
The ink does dry as verbiage blinds
lost eyes beneath a furrowed brow.

If but the tongue might find the edge
now sharpened ‘pon the watered stone.
Unleashed to spill a dribble’s dredge
and carve the mystic poet's mone.