The rain pouring inside my fingertips
Comes out as drops and drips
Of ink that slops and slips
Across the bare, white page
A page with the corner ripped
Maybe even torn and stripped
Shoulders forlorn and chipped
No, wait, those are mine
Burdened and willow-like
Burdened black ink sike
We flow, blurring the fading wike
Between writer and write
Photo by José Ignacio Pompé on Unsplash
December Rose 
Leave a Reply