“Is it true,” he ask,
“Is it truly a writer’s greatest fear?”
Too quickly I respond, calculated and unclear.
Today and each I fail to admit,
Its echoes revisit and in the background insist,
“Cleverness will not help you here.”
This bright page glares.
No -- it stares into my uninspired eyes -- misty -- and wanting heart whose rhythm ever hits;
Weaving dreams then launching twards unfitted mitts.
Yes -- writers block persist.
