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.

Unfinished life.

All I have, all I am, is the 'Th' of The Beginning:

Fading fast under the dross

Until further notice.