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Blotted

His stares
scraping shellac clogs
fingers
fumble and fondle
frail fountain pens.

Aching universe,
shriveling like his skin
ink thinning with thirst,
for a simple steady sketch.

Ink
smudging,
averse to curves and lines
blotting his passion
as it lies in deep slumber...

A contest entry

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Comments


  • Danna Hobart
    April 3
    Edit | Reply
    Such a sad poem. Lots of good imagery. Thank you for entering.