The Empty Page

He sits atop his comfy chair
In this place he knows so well
With a sweating glass of amber courage
Close by to his hand
The screen has stayed a daring white
And the words die in his head
Another day of thoughts and drink
Will not bring them to the page
He’s never been this way before
With his fingers in their normal space
They hover above the keys but do not move
As he slowly starts to cry a silent tear rolls down his face
His novels line the walls
And his poetry can dance across the page
But somewhere between his thoughts and fingers
He’s somehow lost his place
And he rises once again
To fill the glass that he’s never used before
But instead of sitting down again
He wanders out the door
And the bells toll once again
In the church atop the hill
And he falls down to his knees to pray
To a God he’s never known before
Another lost man
Another fading plan
Another day that he won’t remember
As he numbs his brain again
He sits in the kitchen chair
As the sun begins to fade
With the bottle close to hand
He raises a toast to the things he’s lost
For he knows he’ll never write that way again
He rises with the sun
And turns off his machine
And turns to load his empty gun
He’s lost his will to be
A writer with no words
A man with naught to say
Without a note to tell his tale
He will never try again