Colin F. Jones

WRITER’S BLOCK

I know a poet who can no longer write!
For nothing comes to mind when she doth think,
It is a dead emotion one can’t fight,
The eye a-stare as though it cannot blink.
Too oft in Summer water ways dry up,
So many drinking from the running stream,
That one is left there with an empty cup,
Too tired to think, too tired to dream.
And always a great writer in despair,
Reaches out to find her Golden wings,
Losing faith for the lack of air,
From greater effort greater failure brings
Yet if the flower never takes a rest,
‘Twould not with sweet renewal ere be blessed.

Author’s Note: For Eileen Breedlove