I’m not entirely sure
This is a better
Use of my time

Sitting here
Waiting on answers
From the room
Which offers
None

In its quiet
Turn of phrase
By an awful air
That lingers
As if silence
Shouldn’t furnish
What this dust
Would whisper well

Through old age
And stagnant breath
With such ripe
But telling odor
Speaking cruel
Yet honest wisdoms
Like this sound
Of creaking chairs

Where each ghost
Remained at rest

Though their movements
Echo softly

Among light
Dispersing shadows
Tracing outlines
Now long past

Hearing voices
In my ear
Wish each word
Were somehow faithful
To these moments
Ever fleeting
When all poems
Write themselves

And I never
Lose this line

Or find meaning
Trailing blindly
Behind verses
Uninspired
While those days
Go rambling on

Since I’d rather
Sit and play

Follow nonsense
Into boredom

Idly worship
Doing nothing

Than approach
My doubting pen.

– J. Pigno