crap in D minor.

"Etherized upon a table"

Its been 3 weeks since i have lost my Muse. I cannot write anymore; my inspiration is dead. I picked up the pen earlier, but the light pelican feather was not strong enough to bear the rugged grip of my grief and just crumbled into my hands. The inkpot stayed there watching the pen die. However, later rejuvinated as my fingers invaded its tiny privacy limited only to the pens in the past. The paper and the pen both were played by my own skin. This play of caligraphy didnt last much long. Distracted by time itself perhaps, I looked outside the window to see the rain pouring through the leaves of an old willow tree. The greyness, with a thick accent of chill in its dialouge, was probably too harsh for me to bear. I tried to listen to what the falling drops had to say, but the murmurs of the fire in the fireplace, reaching out for me, were a distraction. I have told them before, but they never seem to listen and the flames are restless.