Breaking the Block

I wait for the flow of new words

but writing veins are filled with empty,

bled out and dehydrated, can’t switch

the sun back on to illuminate thoughts.

Bruised passion has erased memories,

thick candle wicks have been clipped,

waiting for a piece of space – a solitude

compelling phrases on my paper.

Frozen in shadowed snowdrifts,

I pray as I count seconds of my life

lingering as I try to catch lost nuances,

drowning in reverberating, desolate rain

soaking my mind so ideas can’t reign,

awake in fetal state, asleep in syllables

following black crows leading the way

past the roadblocks of parched lips

trapped in desperate unyielding flesh

whispering myths, waiting to trace

smoke signals of unique words

rejuvenating yesterday’s fancy.