(Word block can be a very difficult condition, not often written about
but often complained over).
The atmosphere in the room is deafeningly silent,
gently squeezing my temples, tasting like fog.
A pregnant desolation, brightness is dark,
your face is firmly turned from mine,
choosing not to hear my cursed appeals.
I am waiting for you, I know you will speak, always do.
You lift a shoulder to give me hope,
but hope flares like a damp match, then dies
a death of cynical dissatisfaction.
Once again, I am face down in this muddy chasm
and all is quiet once more, I sleep.
Then in the warmth and turmoil of a dream
you’re there, unexpected, arms outstretched,
courting me with pretty words.
My muse.
© Graham Sherwood 10/2011
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