the Desperation of a Forgetful Poet, in Search of a Pen.

As if she were this poet's lost pen,

For whom I've foraged since early morning -

In desperate attempts,

Lest I forget,

What was to be said -

Underneath desks and amongst books,

And between the wrinkles of the divan.

I've searched for her

Anywhere and everywhere;

Amidst the sheets of the bed I've just made,

And in the bowl of treats I was afraid to take..

I've searched for her

In the pockets of the clothes I've seldom worn;

And inside rooms, into which I've never walked.

Beneath lows that barely exceeded my thighs..

And above heights that stood no short of I..

I've searched for her.

I've searched for her

Anywhere and everywhere..

In short,

Even in places she was unlikely to be..

And I think..

I think..

..

I'm a step closer to

Insanity.

The End.