nothing to write

It is with deep regret that the author informs you (in verse) …

there is nothing.
my heart cannot tell you
what my soul declines to loose
and my mind considers refuse
when the time ticks pock marks 
            in the chalk marks
                    around my dead hope.

i trust elsewhere
there is strength of will
where exists fortitude -
a dimension without latitude
for any volume of fragility
            no amount of civility
                    for lame excuses.

but tonight ...
on this section
of the fabric of time,
and here ...
past the inflection
of my flattened rhyme,
there is nothing.

 

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