“Bla, Bla, Bla,”.. .

That’s all I feel anymore,
When thinking of what to write.
Words seem to escape me,
As I sit here in the night;

Beautiful Letters,
On the wings of words,
Soaring around me,
In an endless blur.

A desolate plain,
On this paper I see,
Has yet to form,
It‘s valleys and trees.

An idle pen,
Circles and lines,
Nothing but scribbles,
From in my mind.

When put to paper,
I sit in awe,
For what I see,
Is, “Bla, Bla, Bla,”.. .

.
William Hancock © All Rights Reserved

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[ Image used:  pixabay.com/en/sunset-desert-dry-trees-sandy-soil-284213 ]

Poem on Image: placed by; written by  William Hancock © 2014′

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