Writers Block

Lead not into imaginary worlds
Instead onto a dusty wordless cay
No furtive brush of bracken fronds unfurled
Just shadows shifting dark below the way
This boat has sailed a thousand empty seas
A bag that travels empty on my back
My mouth an empty aquaduct of pleas
Inspiring as a worn out hessian sack
Above the yellow tumerous miniscus
A vast and pregnant zeppelin is tethered
But ’til I shed this unproductive focus
My flying toy and I remain unfeathered
And when this inarticulation ends
I’ll wish for sleep-filled quiet times again

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