The tentacles of endeavor that connote my purpose for being are withering and dying from interest receding.
Nourishment from intellect’s gains becoming less abundant
rendering this creative life increasingly redundant.
What magic can be channeled to alter this downward course
before totally atrophying this unseen energy, mental force?
External, electronic medium source set to induce neuron’s firing
lack any essence of wisdom to stimulate words of worth or inspiring.
Consumed and lacking any mental creativeness to spend
into oblivion, I feel consigned and obliged to descend.
So take this reward, this last motif of expression, though be it lame, no longer am I able, toward any literary fame, strive to ascend.
naykdpoet 