A Lull

He trusted that writer’s block was just a lull and searched for his pen Ink had dried for some time and his worn mind scratched for words A lullaby or even a tristich would do if an epic eluded his triste drought Anything to get words into motion once more before sadness set in Yet he stared at blank pages and paused before stitching up muse Silence was alchemy in disguise and inner voices shouted lost causes Three lines were stuck in the fountain and his quill would not scribble Mute and depleted he scrabbled congested emptiness into lost letters But drawn by invisible spells sentences woke from catatonic displeasure The flood gates opened and Atlantis surfaced from sunken slumber An underworld of forgotten allusions sprouted eluviation in reverse Emptiness meta-morphed into congestion on a once silted river Streams of consciousness cascaded above cesspools of tidal return Waterfalls seemed to rise from stagnant illusions of frozen arrest Soft water in veins of calcified drowning emerged on the surface As he mended confusion seams repaired forgotten hem’s dreams Poet he was still is and will be and he exhausted himself yet again Three stitches of past present and future and sanity basted aloud 15th February 2020 Contest sponsored by Edward Ibeh Pick a title Vol 14 contest Tristich Title picked A lull