When The Ink Runs Dry

Poets let prolific friends 

Sleep in the shade

Of a tired willow tree,

Hide in the sanctuary of a secluded rabbit hole,

Take a vow of silence under the starlit sky,

Send a barrage of discharged words

On to crumpled paper flung across the room,

 

But they will never let them drown

In a sea of regret,

Nor let their ink run dry.