The other day

He gave up and laid his head down on the keyboard.
For some reason or another the words just wouldn't come.
It was a huge block, and unlike others,
had lingered for more than a month.
Over and over he had tried to conjure something up...
but nothing was forthcoming.

He had become a dry well.
The fears of his fathers oil-drilling days now lived on in him.
However, this was no dryness of the earth.
This was the dryness of his very soul.
Waterless. Dusty. Parched and dry.


Copyright 2003 by pauly hart

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