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?