uninspired,
he could not fathom the grey fog
looming within his brain.
as if he were a something
composed of miniscule nothings;
and all he was was a grain.
he tried to scribble out
an array of floating thoughts;
drifting slow and steady.
but grey mists merely blind him,
drive him off the cliff's edge
to a pit of grey pools, unready.
he soaks in these dull waters,
praying for epiphany,
crosses his fingers tight.
and begs for shooting stars
to litter and rain down upon
his inky, starless night.
for he was an empty shell
void of glam and splender.
with strained mind, he slowly felt
his body grow ever slender.