Once I had so much to say.

Or so it seemed

anyway.

Now the page becomes a void,

white to black and staring back.

Inspiration once illumined my blood,

now it feels
as if my veins
must be thick with mud.

Could it be merely
that it is twenty 'till two?

I'm not so young as once I was,
it's true.

(Are you?)

Tired.
Mired in worry,

I've failed the Muse today

with these wakeful hands.

To sleep!
To sleep!

I have promises to keep
in dreamland.