Once more, his quill stains A4 blanks,
Scribbling and scrawling against time.
And every single syllable talks only of you.
The poet’s chosen muse, he reveres you.
In gliding thoughts and flowing words filling the blanks.
His imagination brims with sentiments of lovely time.
Perhaps this will be one last time,
That his quill will talk of you.
With you gone, he lays it to rest amidst fluttering blanks.
He holds you again in the blanks, scribbling poems and prose each time, knows not what to write but you.