There is nothing here,
not a dot or word or line,
not a pulse that brings
its rhythms in, no, just
the thought that I am
dry in the summer heat,
spent of the inspiration
that is my desire but
will not come to bless
this pen that waits
with too much pause,
trembling on a blank page,
expecting words to drop.

There is the driving desire
but not the performance to
match this wish to create
and all is given over to dull
absence as my pen waits
with a switch and a feign
attempt to do that which
seems now impossible as
Apollo has cursed, and the
Muses have fled, and I am
here alone with the urge
and no words of redemption,
but I refuse to walk away.

 

30/1/2026