Before the ink dries

Alone a would be poet sits,
a stoic hand supports his chin.
Despite the more than ample light,
the world around seems dim.

A distant look adorns his face,
in his fingers a restless pen.
A gaze that strains beyond plain sight,
for where to start, or when.

What story is he yet to tell,
its true purpose hard to gauge.
So much vested in these empty sheets,
all his passion, his heartache, his rage.

Stranded amid this vacant verse,
caught in a moment, as before.
He knows it’s time to turn the page,
but in his heart, he yearns for more.

For how does one begin the end,
before wet ink sees light of day.
Which chapter draws us to a close,
have we said, all there is to say?