I listened
but the wind dropped
its susurrations

I watched
but the mist hides
nothing behind her

I spoke but no words
formed to descry
the smoke that
fitted inside me

I halt and let
my permeability
to open its gates
and the water eddied
in crystal silence
and colorless cold

The sibilant hands
of heavens carefully
wallowed to senescence
and there is nothing left
but this proud absence
echoing in the hollow
void we created

My pen suffocates
on ink futilely,
I’m out of words
to bleed.

Norman Santos

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-wrong-time-for-writing/