Left For Dead

My mind's a blank, a non-think tank The garden of my thoughts overgrown and rank Inspiration has fled, left me for dead The rivers of passion dried up, fully bled I stare at the page -- it stares right back Mirror image of a literary hack I look at the sky; the ceiling blocks it Out the window -- darkness mocks it O, for a metaphor... O, for a simile O, for a tiny ray of sweet poetry!