Spent

I am dry,

Like an ink-pot, centuries old,

Lying in some forgotten corner,

Gathering dust, carefully preserving memories beneath.

I am dry,

Like the palette, once alive with fresh colours,

But now, just a vessel, blotched,

A grotesque mix of arid, stubborn, crumbling tinges.

I am dry,

Like the bruised tip of an overused, now discarded quill,

That once captured the journey of life,

Now in silent hysterics, tries to remember the meaning of its own.

I am dry,

Nothing more to say or show, spent,

Like a home, once throbbing with life,

Now just a structure with tightly closed doors and windows.