a writer’s desk

A page barren of thought

I could but hardly say,

the lantern’s wick has hardened

the crowd is gone away

shivering leaflets fallen

on frozen beds of hay

ideas congealed in bottled ink

I stand before the fray—

of cold, plagerized pages

in 21st century gray

of renditions and other nonsense

that shall never see the day;

and yet, I hold this pencil

through which I purpose lay,

to contradict this nothing

for this nothing I must not delay.

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“if ever you feel you can’t write, write about it.”