the candle on my desk burns at one end

I burn at two

I work late into the night to no end

 But it's no use.

My ink-stained hands tremble

But they can hardly keep up 

With the scratching of my pencil

Working down to a stub. 

Pouring endless ideas, increasingly intricate

Straying off into the distance so far, I can't find meaning yet.

A set of two footprints twisting and winding 

Through a blank tundra plain where I thought I had something

But instead I find blank white sheets of nothing.

My brain is empty

All my words are used up already

On uncounted crumpled-up sheets. 

I rest my eyes for "a minute", but fall right asleep

And that was the just night number one of the week.