The page remains blank.

My eyes have grown tired ,  my tea cold.

My pen still hasn’t moved.

I think it just up and died.

It’s been lying there for days.

Resting on the paper, poised to write.

Yet it is still remains blank.

I am pretty sure it’s dead.

I am sitting sipping my tea, it’s still cold.

And the bag is still stuck to the side.

The cup left a ring on my paper.

So it is not total empty.

But still barren of any word.

My hand lies there resting on my pen.

It doesn’t move.

I think its dead.

The room is quit and cold.

Only one little flickering bulb for light.
The window is dark still.

I can’t remember when I saw the sun last.

I think its dead.

The little mouse hole.

There’s a spider web over it now.

We used to be in tune.

The scratching of my pen.

The scraping of my claws.

That grove has stopped.

I think he’s dead.

That little chunk of cheddar.

I left by his doorway.

Has grown hard and moldy.

It’s starting to smell.

I am almost cretin he is dead.

This man sitting in the chair across the room.

This man he is staring at me.

He hasn’t moved in days.

This glowing man glinting in the dying light.

Now I know he is dead.

My mind is blank.

I can’t remember.

When I had a thought last.

I think its dead.

The room is quite.

I can’t even hear the beating of my heart.

I think its dead.

Funny thing is you don’t even notice it.

Till it’s gone.

I fell cold.

I think I am dead.

Yes, I do believe I am right.

I am dead.

Well at least I think I am.