Elegy On The Dried Ink!

Under the indescribable skies standing, wondering at the incomplete account of the stories untold the flow of thoughts will stay at birth the bond with the muse is lost; Standing, stumbling upon the unbelievable earth the words die a prenatal death and the case of not so easy breaths, the tales of souls of every description or definition, the unmade rhymes on a rose-petal, the unsung songs on the rain-birds locked up in a blood clot somewhere inside the brain or the veins of heart what is there is the sense of loss for the pen uncapped and the dried ink and the page left blank... - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Haven't I painted my all felt void?