Writer's Block
I'm on a treacherous journey down a barren mind,
a cavernous abyss of unintelligible revelations,
void of any comprehensible inspiration.
I am perpetually staring at a blank canvas,
continually foraging for that illusive phrase,
ransacking my hollow coffers of recollection.
Parchment decomposes from abandonment,
as does the ink drying in the quill.
There is rumbling from within,
fermenting familiar reminiscences.
Might this evoke envisions of my opus,
or the rancid sustenance I have consumed?
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