Death of a poem

I pour out like a garbled stream
From the depths of a melancholic soul,
As the azure turns a shade of grey
I make my way to a crumpled note.

I emerge as a jumble of thoughts
Caught in the midst of a downpour,
Strolling like a vagabond
Before making my way home.

I deign not as the mind struggles
To tame me into meaningful streams,
Till the night-lamp burns out I remain
Stubborn to the blue ink.

The end is a dismal affair,
Caught between glory and age,
Till from the worn edges of a parched sheet
I am reborn as a tune.