A Quill Runs Dry

I have said and written all i had to,
And now my treasure chest has run dry.
And yet I feel there's so much left
Unsaid and untried.

Words that never matched the depth
Of what i truly felt.
Emotions that failed to appear in my voice,
As silences went unrent.

I can think of so many better ways,
So much I could have done.
But my hands lie weak and stilled,
While my heart refuses to run.

Time, how quickly you have gone by,
Empty notches on a vacant post.
How much I had and frittered away,
And now I am a whispering ghost.

Haunting crumbling places,
That the world will never know.
As it moves on, ignorant of
The last embers of my fainting glow.

A cruel fate, a punishment just,
Bear my scars as I must.
Faces and names, voices and sights,
Hatred and love, envy and trust.

All I am is an ancient relic,
My only function- to gather dust.
The spiders bid adieu long ago,
Their silky threads flecked with rust.

I speak a tongue that has long since died,
No one to mourn in sorrow.
No one to know if I smile or grimace,
Whether I live In the past or tomorrow.

Regret and guilt, long, deep sighs,
Abundant wealth like fame gone by.
Coins of memories, spent each day,
To ease the pain, as you lie.

My thoughts, my sole companions,
I seek solace in my cry.
It’s futile to put them down in words,
My pen has long run dry.

A whispering ghost,
Is all am I.