I can count on my finger tips Each paper thrown away. Scrawling of inadequacy Momentarily plagued with Stunned fingers. Decayed and Crippling I throw about the crumbled papers From one side of the desk to the other. Searching for a word, a rhyme Anything to create this dismal Letter I’ve been trying to convey. The room fills with an Aroma of freshly ground coffee. The darkness deludes me. My hands tremble to pick it up But my old feeble body Wishes to not work, again. It spills I feel I should be spouting Off nursery rhymes. Oh you poor lunatic I shout! Old and decrepit much like fallen dreams Of the glorified youth of society. Deity calls me. The clouds push aside The canopy opens like a sheet of Paper new and fresh without Coffee stain spilled on them. The dial of the seismograph Starts up again beyond its old decrepit years. Nemesis of skeletal remains, Remnants of dirty washed out Forgotten dreams. A pen sitting untouched The hand barely made a mark