I can feel the poetry leaving each shaking hand,
I am perplexed at how I am even able to stand.
There is no longer a purpose in my words.

My eyes are drifting to a far off place
Where the Cat plays his fiddle in space.
I was only here to just pass by.

Now peering out the front door,
Is there meaning to me anymore?
The ripcord has been cut and I am falling fast.

I still press these cold pages to my lips
And hope that I can capture just a glimpse
Of the poet that I use to be.