The Ink Has Dried

Pitifully, it seems my volcano has erupted—Somerset Mougham Awaiting ink and feather to perform, my volcano has erupted Gloomy den, I listen to crackling fire, nothing of worth to pen Suffer to produce work that last forever, an unwritten rule inducted Cupped in hand, a cobalt bottle, I rub it, and call on its Jinn Last resort, I sort out the day’s events, journals I’ve constructed Graced ideas and creativity dead-ended, no nativity, a blank page The ink has dried, writings seen under scrutiny, in a fishbowl Sorcery a bitter end, acquire a student, mentor, what I now wage Appetite gone, blithe verses, Chicken Soup For The Soul; soulful Poetry to please; plush oriental magnolia’s, birds of paradise, sage Speechless, lost in words of little sense, strained thoughts, struck dumb Poet's bemoaning what's penned in a year, should've taken a week Muses ebbed, Coleridge, Dickenson, to writer’s block they'd succumb Inspiration depleted, curtains drawn shut, I may never again peak Gloomy den, a chilling season, I listen to the wind, comfortably numb