EMPTY-MINDED AUTHOR

He sits at the end of his cot, facing a chairless desk,
Reaching into the darkest corners of his exhausted mind,
In a dimmed room, time rolls by like a jagged boulder,
While eyelids fatten a pound as each minute goes by.

He sips a glass of water that had been sitting for days,
On a dusty chess board which he hasn't won with in years,
His jaded eyes countlessly gaze to his statues and trophies,
Which remain nothing more than jewels of the past.

A pen of a feather rests over the top of his ear,
His two pockets, but a quarter, are helplessly drained,
Wishing to fill one at least, he pushes on to compose,
To add another piece to his stunning compendium.

Adjusting his glasses, he strokes his thriving beard,
As a seemingly fresh idea is conjured in his mind,
He gives his God's blessings, and lights another candle,
While a smirk on his face shall tell its beginning.