There is sweetness at each edge of writer’s block.
It consumes the men who forget
they are beyond the reach of the harp.
These men lay their heads on pillows,
stuffed by angel feathers.
They stare up at their ceiling mirror,
but never notice the insect hovering closer.
Instead, they try to imagine what their life would have been,
had they not slaughtered their inspiration,
and worn their skins like a tribal rite of passage.
Each man riffles the hollow trunk beneath their bed,
searching for the bones they hid there,
so they may suck more marrow from the angel’s breath.
But the body never remains—
not for more than a day;
So they stalk the night with prayers,
hoping to snare another cherub in their mesh.
But as they are busy hunting,
the mosquito has settled in—
and all their beauty is siphoned—
so another poet may be fed.
And that is the sweetness at the end of writer’s block.
One artist is left for dead,
while another man,
carries on the daily task.