When my ink runs out, my soul shall weep, For words unspoken, secrets to keep. The quill, my friend, now runs dry, No more tales to tell, no more to try. The parchment stares back, blank and white, Mocking my plight, my endless night. The silence deafening, my mind aghast, As I stare at the page, aghast. Oh, how I long for that ink to flow, To give voice to the thoughts below. But alas, my pen lies still, My soul lost, my heart a chill. I fear the end is drawing near, As my words fade away, unclear. The page remains empty, a void to fill, But my ink runs out, and all is still. So I bid farewell. to my muse, And to the words that I did use. For when my ink runs out, my soul shall weep, And my pen shall rest in eternal sleep.