The Pen and The Wind

There’s a bloated corpse at the foot of my bed, 
It is the very corpse of Will, 
 It sits there rotting, with dead dark eyes, 
Staring at me wherever I lie.

And where I lie is not far off,
For Will’s dead you see,
For every action there is no drive,
No reason for the decisions to which I arrive.

I’m decomposing, with rigor mortis setting in,
I’m not that far behind Will, you see,
I’d wish I could get my Will back, 
Before I too am a corpse, with eyes so black. 

But Will must feed off of drive, 
And mine starved to death.
With flame and spark simply gone,
What can one do with every day drawn?