writers' blockade

my mind is blank
like a lonely twilight stage
when the audience is in their beds
and the absinthe perfumed actors
winding down
their decadent parties

I've nothing
but languid clocks on my hands,
yet I who've had
so much to say...
can think of utterly nothing
for weeks into months now

partly, I'm haunted
with the embarassing sense
that I've said too much
over the years...
prepared too many foot salads
and (pretentious hoe in hand)
cultivated a garden of rocks

then again,
perhaps it's depression:
that lazy arid hopelesness
which has seized spirits
far greater than my own

it's happened before
(this creative freeze out)
and I recall it was broken
by a thaw and a confused push
to put down my mundaneitries
into verse and to see
that in prolific summers...
I'd certainly sprouted worse