CWTF X - Manuscripts

The bulb burns dim
A moth flutters about the glass
Then collides with it
It is a small room, furnished lightly
The walls whisper suggestions and half truths
Whilst outside the furs sway
To the rhythm of the keys pattering against the ribbon
The coffee mug has painted three quarter circles
In sporadic patterns on the desk
And the cigarettes have scattered their ashes across the surface
Stories keep spilling from the mind and pouring from the fingertips
Though you never did write her one song
Nevermind, she will make for a decent muse now
Become a succession of letters and apostrophes
That stumble across the page
Searching for self worth and meaning
But finding no conclusion