| The Writer He finishes his final book. The last drop dries on the back page. The sun sets outside the window, Marking the end of an excruciating day. As the room begins to get darker and darker, He prepares for his departure. His retirement will not be hard to bear. He will be forgotten as if he had never written there. His books never mattered anyway. They were discarded long before this day ever came. He stands up to leave, pen and novel held tight. The pen is empty; there is nothing more he can write. He walks out and begins to close the door, Knowing that he will not write anymore. |