Fingers, bloody, in the rain.
The sky is falling - what's to gain?
Beasts in cages, lovers scorned.
Sometime, somewhere, someone yawned.
Writers one and writers all,
We cannot let our artworks fall,
If books are dying, then die we must.
Before our beauties turn to dust.
Dickens. Poe, Austen too.
Which of these compare to you?
It's far too hard to write that well,
In vain our pens, on paper fell.
But, maybe, some hope remains,
The title "Classic" stands to gain.
Perhaps, imbued with our swift passion,
Our works will never die and ashen.
We know there's hope - it isn't found.
When by Writer's Block we're bound.
