I visited the abandoned chapters;
they had grown sullen and strange.
The scribbled notes
as if a morose,
neglected lover
wait for me
to decipher his bitterness.
I coax the words
to enlarge their meanings.
I cajole the mundane
for a missing clue.
‘Persistence’
says the law of writing,
yet,
another hour
or,
perhaps two
lie folded
amongst escapade tea breaks,
In the loneliness
of losing words
and thoughts,
I pour over words
and words.
A leap years' pact hung above
-Damocles’ sword.
