Haunted Writer

The silence of my room,
Daunt task of writing,
I am haunted by the past,
By the which I can not change,
And I look blankly at the cold,
Untouched and dolor paper,
And I rest my face in my hands,
Hands that have written so much,
But now have nothing,
And I cry all alone,
And remember that which I dare not,
And a story comes,
And I am at peace,
Once again