A Poem Free of Italics
(Though, perhaps, it isn't entirely without self-pity)
Pen on the desk
The lid scorned beneath it.
Nib drying out on a half-empty page.
Half-obscured by a sketch not quite complete,
By paint without lids; sweets without wrappings,
Words that once burned now almost forgotten.
Faint tracings of a memory are all that's left behind.
Unfinished page. Unfinished action.
All I have, all I am, is the 'Th' of The Beginning:
Fading fast under the dross
Until further notice.