The Waiting Tale

Here we are, old friend.

Your skin unblemished,your point sharp.

I sigh in remorse as your ink-blood flows.

The pages beneath my hand your deathbed.

Here we sit, old friend.

Reminiscing about the good old days.

How long ago did you lose your colors.

When did you give up your blues, yellows, and greens for me.

What have I given in return except my dreams.

Here we cry, old friend.

Writing these words we don't have.

The ones we either lost or gave away.

Imagining that tale, waiting at the edge of the world.

Here we depart, old friend.

You have no more ink-blood to draw the wings of my dreams.

So, I thank you for your friendship.

And I bury you in that metal bin with your brothers and sisters.

With crumpled beds of their own.

With old dreams to throw away.