You spoke never promises, yet as oath you were took,

And in you my faith never wavered, but now I know I was mistook,

Think me a fool, if you will, for my hopeless lack of doubt,

And for thinking, in this, I wouldn't be without,

But perhaps I grew to used to you, ever in my sight,

And was unprepared when you left, so sudden was your flight,

Fickle thing, would you leave with not a word,

Not a mumble, a whisper, a warning to be heard,

Of my near abandonment, injust, though it may,

Then before you part, alow me to say,

Would you cross my path again, and if ever you may,

That you are still in my highest regards, unfaithful though you be,

But I would seek you still, and hope so to see,

That you never really left, my pen was not left to fall,

And the paper, the ink, the words did not leave at all,

But you were only hiding, fickle idea, inspiration, friend and fiend,

Never would you depart, leave me, with only blank pages,

And I hope, a lost hope, that never should my pages be left blank to fill,

And empty hours with not a word, not a mumble, through all that time to kill,

And would you not give me warning, before you leave again,

And hurry back quick now, waiting is such a pain,

Pity the writer, for inspiration, sich a fickle thing,

Will come and go, not a word, a whisper, a warning,

And then will stir, late into the night,

Only to leave again, at dawns first light,

And speaks no promises, yet still, as oath, is took,

And foolish writers, so many mistook,

Inspiration, ideas, for loyal, a friend,

when in fact, a tiresome fiend,

Yet all is still forgiven, when that lost idea returns,

And the pen, and paper, and long hours and blank pages,

Are all forgotten in ink and paper, the black and white,

Pity the writer, who writes all night,

Only for the idea to leave them, once more, at dawns first light.