My feather quill lies faded and tattered
Once an Icon, now a vestige from another life.
My inkwell sits dusted and depleted
Once a vessel of pride,  now no longer needed.
My mind is a desolate place,  dried and useless
Once my sanctum of knowledge,  now no thoughts stir.
My soul is withered,  a morally hopeless place
Once the fire of creation,  now the wind is silent.
 My paper is without words,  an empty white desert
Once my diary of dreams,  now a meaningless void.


Until suddenly...
I plunge the feather quill into my arm
I scream!
"O God, what would you have of me?"
I weep.
My tears fall upon the paper before me
The rain of sorrow is unrelenting.
Blood flows from my arm and quill
Drops of life fall unnoticed below.
There is a fusion of both as they pool
A gathering of souls upon the paper.


Until suddenly...
My quill touches that bleak emptiness that is paper
Crimson leaps and dances around its' white membrane.
There is a wild fornication of thought to creation
A rampant mauling--a frenzied feeding--a melding.
I become ship,  that slips thru malaise 
I become desire,  that burns thru verse
I become wanting,  that feeds off life 
I become unchained,  that lives again
I become mirror,  that reflects what was
Watch as I step thru.


And finally...
The light of my former self is welcomed in
I am poet once more.
For I dwell within that unnatural place
A place known as lost and found.
Breathe me in!