I fight writer’s block,

Shakespeare and Steinbeck taunt

me from inside musty books.

My retinas burn watching the candle flame

dance exotically, flooding

my room with lavender fragrance.

 

Electronics hum, meandering feet

thud to the bathroom, the furnace roars

and my wooden chair groans

in the sleeping household.

 

I wait for the words.

 

 

Slowly

at first, like

water leaking

through a

dew covered

tent, the words drip

into my mind.

 

In a sudden surge, they drown me but thin lined stationery soaks up the scribbled words.

I write of how Steinbeck mocks me and about that dot of light stamped

into my eyes from the candle; I write of the blossom aroma infusing

the room and the muted symphony of house-hold noises.

I write until once again

my mind palace

dries into

a desert.

 

 

But at least

 

I wrote this.