It’s half past twelve and I’m devoid of thought.
It isn’t that I’m out of sync, or tired.
It isn’t life I’m lacking, that I’ve got.
But there are days when nothing can inspire—
The page remains a blank, imposing space;
Daunting in its incomplete complete-ness.
We stare at one another, face to face,
The artist and the art, in emptiness.
And now it’s nearly one, and here I am.
Sticking letters in the white, and hoping
Maybe it will all just come out right. And
If it does, I’ll owe it to the groping;
The empty space, the silent, empty night—
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