The Hour Is Late

A blank mind, focusing on disappearing pages. A pen looks for a rewind, taking back mistakes of the ages. Yet nothing is swirling, nothing comes to thought. An empty hand curling, with words that get caught. Sorrow is nothing, but an influential guide. What will joy bring, just a sense of new pride. Thorough searches for a rhyme, something that will ease a soul. Traveling back and across time, looking for a critical role. At a loss of speech, at a loss of creation. Looking for a creative reach, an idea now sation. A work left uncreated, a page with missing points. Critics not sated, by a poet who disappoints. Forgive a weary head, for the night grows long. In the hour of the dead, no choice but to cut the song. Forgive the lack of choice, and the lack of sorrow. Soon there’ll be beauty in the voice, try back again tomorrow.