An Unimaginative Mind

Dusty corridors of thoughts, where on a table,

My mind’s poured empty, liquid words from an overused vase.

It’s a house abandoned, a yard unkempt.
Worn gears disabled.

Rusted and ancient, they grind in thought, crank and rumble.

Letters form on musty tomes, unopened in years forgotten.

Ink forms on worn pages, words fall and crumble onto the dusty floor.

A mind untouched, like a boarded wood; damp and rotten.

In a world filled with technology, the wooden manor lies in ruin.

No gardener, no tender, no scribe to tend her deserted halls.
Halls roamed nightly by vermin and crawlers, pests and mice.

Only their eerie skittering and slithering, are heard in a place forsaken.