Death of a Poem, Unborn

It wasn’t an impulse
Not a plan either
I picked up the pen
And words formed
They flowed
Tiny streams
Full of life and zest
The paper soaked
I caressed the damp imprints
And smudged the writing
The words spread along liquid edges
They were now blots
Indecipherable
Ugly patches on a once pristine
White sheet
The blue ink was now a murky puddle
More grey
The words slurred
Incomprehensible now
Bereft of a rhythm
Or flow
And thus it died
My unborn poem,
Leaving a half formed carcass
That even vultures ignore.