Drought

Bouts of happiness abound
Like some sickly old fool
Prancing in an ill-gotten wheelcha

The pen lies forgotten
Upon the dusty parchments
The nib caked with dried ink

Cobwebs clung
To every spectre of life
Refusing to let go
Shrivelling away From the
Taint of joy that dries up the Source

Paralysis is compulsory
When you choose the beaten path
And you get to sit
In the wheelchair too!