It is a night where I must craft my words
or try to weave lines on a broken loom.
To think a poem will spring forth is absurd.

Stillborn inspiration can't be stirred,
emotions drained away. I must assume
it is a night where I must craft my words.

My prayers to Muse fell back to earth, unheard.
All artistry has booked a separate room.
To think a poem will spring forth is absurd.

Striving merely churns my brain to curds,
its thin gray whey runs down some gutter's flume.
It is a night where I must craft my words.

A cadenced resolution's been deferred,
the last two lines will surely be my doom.
To think a poem will spring forth is absurd.

A peaceful flow of writing is deterred
until my buried spirit is exhumed.
It is a night where I must craft my words,
to think a poem will spring forth is absurd.