The ink has run dry
In the poet’s pen
Perhaps there’s no words
Perhaps there never has
been
The feeble scratches
Making its mark
Perhaps there’s no
purpose
Perhaps they’re empty
and stark
The creased edges
Etched in the eyes
Perhaps there’s no
need
Perhaps they’re
meaningless tries
The twisted phrases
Transcribed with tears
Perhaps there’s no point
Perhaps
they’re just wasted year
