Filtered rays of sunlight,

Shining

On an old, worn sheet of paper.

A golden patch of light,

Warm from ages of sun

An idle pencil

Resting on the desk,

Basking in the heat of the light.

A few hastily scribbled words

Gradually fading,

Fading from existence.

Words written

By one

Driven by passion

Yet, never made a difference.

No one listened,

No one cared.

And so the poet disappeared, vanished.

Invisible,

Nonexistent.

What was done

Was undone.

What was written,

Was unwritten.

Nothing is left,

It's all gone.

The paper and pencil

They wait for the poet

To return.

Waiting.

For their master to come back and use them again.

To write once more.

But why?

No one listened,

No one cared.

And so they wait,

Patiently, but expectantly.

Waiting

Waiting, for eternity.