by Heather Nicaise

the typewriter bell ceased
the keys rusted, fell off

warm breezes turned
to frosted gray gales

pen emptied of ebony ink
and left only cobalt blue

leathery auburn leaves crackled
decayed to earthen dust

a decision was made to exist
and to proceed alone.

Heather Nicaise is a freelance writer living in California. She is a recipient of a Writer's Digest Poetry Award and a Tom Howard/John H. Reid Poetry Award. She has poetry published in Poesia, Orbis, Big Pulp, and Poetry Quarterly.