Writer’s Block

Waiting to spring a cunning trap
I perched among the nearby rocks
And listened for the smallest scrap
A word, the prey I sought to stalk

Between held breaths I dared to hope
That soon would syllables appear
Beneath me on the barren slope
Caught in spite of voiceless fear

When sprung the trap I clambered down
Grasping quarry with greedy hands
Unmoved by either verb or noun
I bent the word to my demands

Imprisoned them from ink to print
Forced on them a paper sentence
Of remorse there was no hint
Desperate scribes deny repentance


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