Writing

I write, dreaming
of an iron pen. Gleaming
thoughts of ancestral dead as desperation
and dread fill this heaving head.

Drowning with desires,
passions, the flesh can scarcely feel—
walking within a shallow silence
prepared for nothing say the end.

Surrounded by this pen,
hopeful of nothing say its strike
atop the head
to send me,
to my bitter end.