Inert

Pile of envelopes,

Waiting to be filled by me,

Waiting for their destination;

My cramped fingers write and write again,

And still I remember,

‘Pen is mightier than sword’.

I smell the ashes of the dreams,

The dreams I saw with the eyes of Shakespeare…

Now, the glare of the monitor blinds me

From what I was;

But still life must go on…

And I am turning myself

Inert.