Two fingers clipped around a cigarette,
A pencil tucked behind his ear.
On his table a coffee-stained paper sheet,
In his eye, a dried up tear.
A hushed prayer slide from heart to ink,
Scribbles and caffeine fill his void,
That, which once brimmed with youthful dreams,
Now only a melancholy he can’t ever avoid.
With nicotine musk and coffee breath,
And his words his world entire;
With worker’s hands that give them bread,
And his aching legs for fire.
An artist’s fingers of words and phrases,
A child’s dream slowly dimming.
A wearied man burdened with faces
hears a song beyond the word breaking.
He sips further into the bitterness,
to calm his dreary nerves,
And lose himself in the sweetness,
of his pen’s black lines and curves.
But, ah, the clock is chiming,
Far off from the plaza mayor,
And the writer’s hand had stopped writing.
His expression still and sour.
He gathered his paper and pens and cigar,
and placed his hat upon his head.
Forlorn and distraught he walks through the door,
Knowing that outside from the coffeeshop,
he is a writer no more.