The flow of words has come to a halt,
Swirl of vocabulary has stopped with a jolt.
No rhyme nor reason to explain why,
The feeling of the poet has left me dry.
Digging for the verbs that might beautifully rhyme,
To create a poem that is utterly sublime.
However the search has been proven a waste,
For the inner sonneteer has left in haste.
And then the idea struck like a flash of light,
To jot down words that could explain my plight.
Write about the unyielding block itself,
And create magic with adjectives that speak for themselves.
Thus this piece of eloquent art was born,
Truth and patience from where it is shorn.
Maybe now the letters will come like a breeze,
Oh who am I kidding ? The life of a poet is never one of ease.