The dream floats,

ink drying on celluloid,

words mangled,

verses strewn to the winds,

across burning sandalwood skies.

The mind wrestles,

the pen digs into parchment,

metaphors skewered,

thoughts stilled by the cacophony of solitude.

Words devour space,

shredding time,

leaving me ever hopeful,

for hardly a reason …

… but for paltry,

meagre,

empty rhyme …