Writer’s Block

  Liquid warmth in a bottle; in a glass

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Candlelight upon the desk as time burns low

  The glow enough for tired thoughts to see

  The abyss upon the page

  To stare and stare forever at the cruel bleached white

  Of the emptiness of the mind.

  Consumed, burnt out, the paper cares not

  As it takes and breaks your plots.

  Writer, writer ye poor soul,

  Your encore is a trial.

  As morning looms, your light subsumed

  Rest your head and sleep awhile.