There’ll be no daily sonnet today.
Thought has wandered and gone astray.
Nimble quill won’t dance on parchment bare,
seducing lonely on table near.
The well is dry from which I must drink.
Chair is empty were journeys to think.
No inky tears shed, blotted or smeared.
No blackened hands bloodied and feared.
Letters scrambled all over my mind.
Their chosen order I cannot find.
Brittle wax puddle proves candles death.
The darkness swallows my daylights breath.
Blindness shackles a masked and heavy head.
I shrink into my unwanted bed.
Heart and soul content for tomorrow.
When ink, I hope, once more will flow