Resignation

In the small corner of my despair, I sit in front of a craven oak monstrosity captivating my existence. The grooves along the surface reflect the countless moments of frustrations I had to endure. They also etch the contorted images of my desire and despair. The smell of old varnish hides the aromas of intellectual failures which have afforded this captivity. Just small fragments of creativity come to tease the edges of my reason as I yearn to hold a single coherent thought. I succumb to the laughter of turmoil and the silence of stagnation. In solitary resignation, I know it, the morbid truth which I struggle to accept for so long. I have lost the ability to create my machinations of wonder. I am left with nothing more than a table clean from the lack of manifestation.