Pity the Poet

Pity the poet who cannot produce, When writer’s block’s mocked as a flimsy excuse. Ache for the author whose well has run dry, Each crumpled page taunting his need to deny. Sigh for the sculptor who stares at the stone, Once viewed as companion, now feeling alone. Cry for the craftsman, the quilter, the painter Whose passions, once purple, grow paler and fainter. Worry for all who once flourished and soared, Existence distilled, now bereft and/or bored. Wonder if such is what waits for us all Unless we still heed creativity’s call.