Sleepless he paces the floor,
Stored memories to explore,
Dim shards of thoughts pour
As he filters time once more.
He searches time for a phrase
An occurrence of olden days,
Perhaps from a word or thought
A divine rhyme may be wrought.
An epic poem to please sages,
Words of verse to enthrall ages,
Flowered words beautiful to hear,
Poetry to be honored by peers.
He sits taking quill pen in hand
With a theme at his command,
A matter for poetry rarely grand
But thoughts flee as blown sand.
He rises to stare out the window
The brilliant matter now a shadow,
Beginning words of perfect rhyme
Escape his mind into shifting time.
The urge to write overwhelms him
Yet subject matters grow ever dim,
Once again footsteps can be heard
As he seeks perfect poetic words.
Late into a lonely night he'll write
Hoping a thought will take flight,
Over and over he'll begin to pen
Only to crumple it and start again.
Vainly he will write until dawning,
Till daylight floods the morning,
He tries with all his might to write
But no flowery words flow tonight.
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