Scribbling down the paper;
It stops at line 17,
When the blue color fades away.
It is a river turning to dirt.
There is nothing left
In this blue pen of mine.
It is a roller coaster jerking to a halt,
A bird falling to the ground.
It is love stopping mid-heartbeat
Where care is left forgotten.
It is a corridor ending at a dead-end
Where a doorway should be.
Where my full poem ages behind a wall
Yearning to be read.
There is further to be written,
But not enough to write it with.
Line 17 wasn’t where it should have ended.
The pen died first, slaying the poem.
It is a pen with no ink
It is a poem with missing words
It is a bird falling to the ground.