For diction of word;
Inches from paper hovers nib,
Taut drawn bow.
Restless stylus yearning,
To indite verse,
Unyielding manual leash
Restraining flow.
Fluttering parchment straining,
All ready to fly;
But deprived of orientation,
Nowhere to go.
With all props ready,
And audience in seat,
The play dies premature,
For the actors fail to show.
Cracking my knuckles,
Wringing hands in vain;
Racking brains, and
Thinking of all I know.
Waiting for inspiration’s
Brilliant strike;
Desperate for rescue
From this silent legato.
And then I give up,
My quest for rhyme;
Lay down weapons,
Before poetic foe.
Then my failure, I realize,
Is in itself poem;
Poem for my despair,
Quid pro quo!
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