Drained out ink
That moment the night gained beauty,
The air smelt cold and fruity.
His door was left ajar,
By thoughts he had travelled far.
For a second he leaned back on the chair,
And ran his hand through his rough hair.
A thought struck him from nowhere,
But still he felt a pain, difficult to bare.
It increased and he crumbled the sheet,
He felt his heart giving uneven beats.
He lost the grip of his pen that drained out ink,
He left his body and went away as a soul;
With fingertips still pink.