The Specter of Panic
His mind is a blank; it matches the screen
in front of him, staring back silent and mean
daring him fill it with meaning and rhyme
as the Enemy ticks in the background -- Time
Seconds ebb away, each one a dull minute
his Fount of Creation dry, nothing in it
Inviting a creature to well up from the deep
The Specter of Panic, hounds him to weep
For the loss of his pen, of his ink -- yea - his will
to knot up his fears in a ball, and roll them downhill
till they crash at the bottom in a sickening heap
shards of despair born of hopelessness deep
O, say it's not so, that's it nought but a dream
that reality's illusion's a loud empty scream
Copyright © Gershon Wolf | Year Posted 2018
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