Impotence

Perhaps what holds my pen
Steadfastly to the floor,
Beside its notebook, laid bare—
Its empty lines calling for their lover
To embrace and kiss them
With thoughts, questions, exclamations, declarations and prose—
Is perhaps not a lack of kisses
But a reason with which to deliver them
There is no love—there is no motivation
With idle time comes idle thoughts
Too many hours in the day
Or too many devoted to the wrong pursuits
The pen and notebook, the lovers
One is impotent, the other barren
Thus what was there before
All that passion, desire, drive
Has been lost to time
Too much, and yet not enough
There, sitting still, suspended for how long
His fire is extinguished