Till I Run Dry Poem by Sibghatullah Khan

Though there is not much on my plate,
I cannot pause awhile and say
if making it at all matters still
when I've had it to my fill.

This door keeps creaking all the day
and Dante lets them in, all of them.
Files come and go
and we call the runner Michelangelo.
signatures are everywhere on the wall;
lusty handshakes sprawl across the place,
and smuts of black smiles leave no space.
The white inverter stuffs the place out
and whirs in exhaustion.

Files are the most obedient:
I shove my signatures in and through
And they lie supine as my pen stands tall,
authority oozing out of its mouth. When I sit
like a victor and see all pink stacks of them signed,
it gives me thoughts to stick on still
and though I've had my fill, I will
split some ink on some more of them
till I run dry and get out of this hell.