I have been writing myself down from dusk to dawn.
I have revealed a million pens clear of ink.
I keep writing to beautify the world and make words beam.
Only each time I scribble, the drops of imagination have darkened.
Like my fingers are wrapped in rings of shadows.
I cannot write a single poem for you today.
It seems that these pens are damaged.
Or is it possibly the ghosts in my room?
None of my words have been close to that of sunlight.
I cannot pull a sphere of hope from the island of daydreams.
For all my islands have been overcome with crows.
I am seeking a path from the cemetery, but I am writing damage.
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