The Writer’s Dance

She asks him to find the words and assures him they will come

But his steps they’ve come undone

He can’t find inspiration or elation in anything around

Silence of his keys is the only rhythmic sound

The constant tap of musings he has known well

Seems to have left him for a spell

The sentences they have gone dry with periods and commas hanging homeless

In a cloud of motionless that can’t find focus

There’s so much in him that’s left to say

Volumes of stories and observations of the days

That paint his scenery and light his way

Traffic in this dance is slow, though

The intersection of words and introspection poses a detour

It lures,it guides him off the standard course

Asking him to take the road of creativity by force

Ignoring normal leaps of discourse in his prose

Somehow he’ll reach the destination for him that fate once chose 

This writer’s block is easy to traverse

As long as he continues to coerce

That stone from which he draws this virtual ink like blood

Creative juice that lets him spill his moves across the page

Dancing in the light of this most divine of gifts

Every line on point, careful not to miss

His lifts, his steps, his marks, his landings

The writer’s dance it is completed

When he finds that with his hands subbing for feet

His words, not only do they dance 

They are still standing



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