Verily, 'tis a melancholy tale I bear, of a scribe delayed in his task so fair.
This wordsmith, once nimble of hand and of wit, now finds himself stuck in a pit.
A pit of procrastination, of doubt, and of fear, that hath rendered his quill ever still and near.
His subject, a matter of great import, with tales to be told that should be in sport.
Yet, he doth suffer a delay most absurd, with the dawn of each day bringing not a single word.
His mind is a jumble of thoughts, all astray, and his heart a maelstrom of worry and dismay.
He hath lost his rhythm, his muses gone mute, and with each day that passes, his book doth refute.
He doth curse the fates, that have so cruel a twist, that hath left him stranded, with nary a script.
And so, with a sigh and a shake of the head, he doth confess that his book is not yet read.
But perchance, he shall find his way clear, and with a burst of inspiration, his tale shall appear.
For such is the way of the bard, and the scribe, that their works, in the end, shall forever abide
First published 14 Feb 2023
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