Blank Pages

Blank pages smother the mind's drafting board,
imagination's ink is dammed beyond a wall of distraction,
creativity's eyes are blurry and unable to focus,
somewhere the brain sees paradise,
but the bridge of verse has collapsed.

It doesn't take dynamite to get invention's fluids flowing again,
nor some mighty thunderous shake inside,
just a feather, a single plume of experience
that strokes softly with whispers of light
to come and see what was ignored
while fretting over one's pen slumbering.

Move beyond the known,
let the head be lifted to clouds of calm,
drift awhile until peace soothes the chaos,
exhale the angst and silence the ghosts who murmur
how this moment of stagnation is writer's rigor mortis.

Valleys come to everyone that follows the muse,
falling into shadows, no longer hearing the song within,
but the path always returns to the mountain top
when we let the heart fly with wings unfettered by stress.