Block

Pen sears the page
I dream instead of sleep
Letters cannot be obtained

This is the beginning of the fear
It will not consume me this time
The end is not near

I conjure in my mind my muse
Sylvia, Anne
Don’t leave too soon

Poetry and love are a dying art
Articulation sometimes a sin
Words creep in to start

My process up in smoke
Fingers grip page
My writing uncloaked