Stuck

I know you craved for a poem but there is a bigger problem: I am stuck with the word seven rhyming with the word heaven. Maybe, from the spring I drank merely poured verses in blank, but no, an orphic power compels and the poem flees and rebels. So this is the best gift I have, perhaps gray like a cold grave. You may even claim it is fine but I will not write a new line, until my muse arouse again and poesy is set to entertain.