Some Things Are Better Left Said

Words lost,
A terrible affliction
To be struck by.
Writers block
They call it,
When the pen won’t hit the paper,
Or the keys on board wont sink.

A mental mire,
Quelled internal thinking,
Occurring most when expression is a direful need
Or a pin that pricks constantly on the skin.
This pin,
Pricks when I remember the days
Pokes ,
A reminder of the ways
And holds the fabric in place.

Though I fear,
It has become threadbare,
The pricks are no longer painless
And attention must be paid
Lest the pins become blades
Thus a poem is made

And like
The chords of a cello,
Played on by a horsehair bow,
Resonating through the hall,
Following where winds blow,
Finally you will know.

Of a time,
Rich in company
Where the snow fell on K
And continued on W,
When we could have dined
And drank fine ice wine,
Perhaps then I could have told you
I wished you were mine.