How long can one nibble at the hollow words?
Even the insects change their course when the hollow pass leads elsewhere for interesting food
Powdery remains of those words float around on spilt ink
An unwilling pen won’t satiate its thirst with it, for fear of clogging its senses
Last drop of feelings are overused, and the dry patches of pages aren’t impressed
Choosing between the untamed streams and a slow trickle of insipid drops
Imaginations won’t be nourished with hollow promises