There are mornings where my pen is a hammer

My keyboard a chisel, my mind a blueprint

My words sturdy bricks, constructing cities

But this morning, my pencil was a useless tool

I could not pull width from wraith-like page

I failed to build you an ivy encrusted castle

Where you’d rule in purple as queen

No inky splendor spilled out through me

I floundered again when erecting a fortress

Stronghold of language to guard your heart

Stones crumbled to graphite dust in seconds

Why, I couldn’t even raise a circus

Of glitter and light simply to amuse you

Big top caved in on one sorry wizened elephant

I’ve faithfully laid each word, heaping them up, one atop the other,

But without the fickle magic which deftly draws

A third dimension from this plane

The page remains stubbornly



Photo Credit: Pencil by runoutside on Flickr; used under Creative Commons License.

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