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