It happens once again; another day
unvisited and unassisted by
a muse, and so another poem won’t
appear. I’m sorry, but I cannot fly
alone. I need the help of one small voice;
a brush of wind that gently whispers by
my ear in some poetic way. A thought,
a notion, even something silly I
could turn into a verse to make you smile.
But here I sit; I’m eating humble pie.