These tears of ink fall silent on my page,
Scribing too wan face in crooked lines;
Black inkwell there of depths no pen could gauge,
No words there writ to yet this grief confine.
‘Tis here my heart spills out its blackened stain
Now marked as blemished smudges on my sleeve,
And at my desk a crumpled man remains—
A soul undone, not knowing why you’d leave.
There is no God above, no God stands tall;
Or if there is, he chooses not to hear
This suffering love-torn man who gave his all,
And cherished so, the one his heart held dear;
Still I implore blank heaven in sorrowed ink,
As love and life in hopelessness now sink.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.