All the overworked muses
and the inspirations overused
Will come to find at once
their long-delayed demise
Leaving one unceremonious
mid-sentence, mid-verse
A story short of conclusion,
a poem sans comprehension
Not the ones to care about
submission deadlines or writing etiquettes
Deserting you even when
'You were doing (rather) well!'
Pouring over lexicons or
galloping across metaphors
Will only leave the arid attempts
heavy with tropey hooves
For the art to truly reflect
more than the broodings of an artist
and flow past the blocks free,
the conduit need be empty,
empty of itself.
A filled pipe may be
good to hold a roof overhead
Only a hollow one can nourish
the fragrance of a flowerbed.