These tears of ink fall silent on my page,
Scribing my pallid face in crooked lines;
That well of ink, of depths no pen could gauge,
No words there writ could yet this grief confine.
‘Tis here my heart spills out in blackened stain
Now worn in blemished smudges on my sleeve,
And at my desk a crumpled man remains,
A soul bereft of why you chose to leave.
There is no god above, no god stands tall;
Or if there is, he chooses not to hear
A 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.