The ink bottle empties, yet quill and parchment remain dry.
Words laugh me to scorn as I try to reach them.
My soul, turned frigid by time's finger; Nothing flows through.
Juices spent and noodles fried.
My bowels are bone-dry; intense hunger for just a thought.
My barren womb cries aloud, as it constantly prays a bundle
A small sparkle in deserted skies; as water's drop in arid lands.
Hopes light grows... as does the despair.
Fruit of knowledge; close to the touch, yet forbidden.
Who else feels the same way?