Poetry

Dry Well (#652)

Against my desk, my fingers are drumming,
All because the words simply aren’t coming,
There’s no answer to the question of why,
But that old creative well seems awfully dry,
A thrown penny into the well returns a thud,
Not from hitting water but hardening mud,
The bucket rests on its side immobile and forlorn,
The yellowing rope is heavily frayed and worn,
Around this well, there’s been celebration and toast,
But now I fear the well has given up the ghost,
What does this mean for the likes of me?
I don’t know- I guess I’ll see.

Any Thoughts?

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