In the silence of late night,
crumpled papers on the floor,
nothing seems to come out right.
I think I can't write anymore.

What paltry ideas come my way
though well begun, just turn to dust.
Muse comes, teases, but then won't stay,
perhaps my pen has clogged with rust.

Is this the start of looking back
to the old days when verse came easy,
before at last I lost my knack?
The very idea makes me queasy.

But eyes now burn from lack of rest.
Tonight, at least, my pen is dead.
I rise deciding it is best
that I just stumble off to bed.