I hate these concrete nights
when a street light
is nothing but a street light
and void of sensuous trim

when the metaphors
have all closed their doors
and profundity sleeps
in the bow of the boat

how could muses breathe
in the stiffness that plagues
the air surrounding
a poet?

Random pages of my unwritten book are lying here and there,
The words on the pages have faded,
and sentences do not make any sense, anymore...