Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Lonely minded

architect of the silver

spire, sat silently, alone

at the table, dressed sharply

in black and grey, your

fingers stained with ink,

made thin by the

wasting sickness

when October arrives

outside the window and you wither further

alongside Autumn,

will you fall spent like the leaves,

or have you yet

the spirit to kindle inspiration

and set your pen to paper,

one final poem,

a requiem for her

never ending story