Stare not back at me words
From this half written page You do not propagate
But hang impotent and incomplete
More do not rise within me;
The tide of swelling literacy fails
I may gaze out a window
Over the cedars of Lebanon
They watch back, outside time
Will not grant me muse or inspiration
To rest a heart into the bloom of calm
Nothing I see will aid my quest for insight
The cipher of enlightenment is the soul
Yet I cannot empathise on its intent
Blank space; empty white page; mock
I fragile and unsure of my immediacy quail
Then at my lowest ebb of nothingness
Word flow again like anointed spring rain
