The Block

Scribbling circles and unproportional flowers;

Tossing pens and crumpled papers,

He sits

and drinks his coffee darker than the day.

He stares at the blank page of black lines.

Tonight, he waits for the poetry.

For the night, his muse

Will whisper the details of this art.

But tonight is different:

Far different than the nights he writes five pages

and more.

For the muse is empty of songs to sing.

It ran out

of rhythm.

There, he remains.

Ruminating over circles that the coffee cup made;

ponders on ideas he procrastinated,

       he remains there waiting,

waiting 

        for the poem to come,
waiting 

        for the poem that might never come,

waiting 

        for the poem that will not come.

He grows tired of just waiting.

He stands, opens his blanket, and dreams.

He dream dreams that tomorrow,

tomorrow he finds the spark,

that certain

inspiration                                                                                                                 

           that maddens a poet

        enraging of passionate words to

make tangible

      an abstract feeling.