Not a single mark could embrace
That blank page
Without meaning nor feeling
My chicken marks seemed so demeaning
Empty and soulless
A political trademark
Off I wandered
Towards fjords and beyond
Escaping time and reality
Letting my subconscious free
The seeds of a webbed dream took hold
For a moment my gifts returned once more
Desperation sinks in, frantically
Rushing for that picture
Yet my butterfly has already died
And I am lost in my pillaged forest
Tumbling through field and floods
Of nothing
Questioning my destiny
Reminiscing past accomplishments
Returning to the pen and paper
Again, it feels all for naught
Words trapped within my mind
My heart has lost its voice
Left wondering
Am I truly a writer