By Steve Evans.
Tonight the lines can lie untended in their texts,
the songs hum themselves to sour sleep,
the chapters chafe restless but ignored
and characters lost in a maze of words
go drown in the uncertainties of plot.
I have a bottle of the finest red,
sorrowful music and no intention of
giving in to writing but for this —
the inevitable static of existence,
an indecipherable inner space gabble.
My night off writing contains chocolate.
There is a cat lurking near my lap,
the moon and tides are swinging in full synchrony
towards the beauty of a blank page.
