The Poet’s Pen Went Cold

The Poet’s Pen Went Cold

The poet’s pen went cold as ice

he stared at words that would not play nice

His mind went blank, his tea went stale

even the rhymes refused to sail

The walls grew close, the air too still

he fought for courage, he fought for will

The clock ticked on, indifferent, blind

while silence gathered heavy in his mind

He waited long, he waited deep

for thoughts that lingered just out of reach

The quiet pressed, the shadows leaned

and yet he sat, though hope seemed thinned

Then laughter came, a crack, a grin

the pen thawed out, the words let in

One line emerged, then two, then more

a gentle flood along the shore

Sometimes that’s all it takes

a small shift, a quiet break

for frozen thought to find its way

and fill the page with light again