My fingers

Made of the finest ink

Sharp like the quills

I have laid across my desk

They are dull and rusted

With the red of metal's blush

These feathers that once made me fly

They have only left me here

To have my words from my lips

Die

They were plucked from the Muse's

Great singing canaries

Who know of words that always rhyme

That always rings in my ears

But as the world said

Your ink spilling fingers

Are not right for the world

Not right for the eyes

Not right for the masses

I can only sigh

Let my fingers lie in the frosty sun

Let them dry up

Rot away

And I can only hope

That Muse's great singing canaries

Can rouse me again

From my sorrowful sleep

From my sorrowful dreams