Excuses
Alas, my friend
the ink has run dry
The paper, wet and crumbling
The messenger would not come
The words, despite heartfelt pleas,
refused to touch my lips.
Sand is expensive,
the candle, not lit.
As for that picture
why, it could not be finished.
With no colours, no paint,
no paper, it could not be sent.
My sincerest apologies
as, with no time,
no words, no paper,
no ink, no sand nor wax,
no picture, no messenger,
no...
Well, I can think of naught else
but to beg for forgiveness
With pen in one hand,
excuses in the other,
I treat you as you, me.
I shall write again soon
Either this year or the next.
When I again find a word,
to send, another waste of paper.
Another reason to write,
an excuse should I say.
Why is the world so full of excuses?
I shall make another as
I do not know the answer.
I dropped the pen,
the ink splattered.
There is no more sand,
the messenger is here.
And yet again
I am out of excuses.
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