The Ode
Empty pages inhabited the shabby bed. Meandering ideas wandered in his head, Thoughts of rejection- Captured them with dread. As the writer always desired for the best. Surrounded by emotions and mountains, His wall had an old painting of a fountain. The fragrance of orchids filled the room, While he took the last sip of his wine. The clock's ticking was unstoppable, Suddenly he heard a sound, It was perhaps of a gunshot. That night he wrote an ode, It was to pay respect to someone's soul. ©songbriti