Eleven days have passed
A morbid retreat into oblivion
No words visited the soul
And a blank line draws

Eleven days have passed
Nothingness sinks like fangs
Draws every strand of strength
Leaves a bitter taste of defeat

Eleven days have passed
Doubt and guilt stop time
Failed dreams, pathetic tomorrow
A trail of stained feathers

Eleven days have passed
Frozen face and hands
Contorted thoughts and wanderings
Descend like fiery raindrops

Eleven days have passed
Demise of a writer
No coffin ready, no one mourned
Epitaph of self inflicted grief

Eleven days have passed
Water drips into the roots
A faint heartbeat awakens
Heaven closes its gate

On the twelfth day
The cycle of life flows
Forces of an unfinished business
Pulls the body from slumber

In this exact moment
Uncertain phrases typed
Silently on keys
Fountain of youth found again

This is core truth of the universe
Demise and return to destiny
The person holds the gavel
And I judge my own sentence



January 21, 2007 at 4: 15.
After eleven days, I got rid of my severe case of writer's block. This was the first piece I wrote after the death of my pen.

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