I stare at the page, blank like a one-line epitaph.
I charge my mind with creation, I drive him forth with a purposeful stride;
I send him out to search each corner of my ability
but a great nothing beats back his foray in silent derision.
Now my lack of capability spreads out before me, a great featureless desert.
Here and there a few coarse growths break the monotony,
but they are just a mockery of pattern, to a self searching for distinguishing landmarks.
Identified for production, the great factory is idle.
Great piles of raw material stack in towering piles against dormant machinery
the operators of which lay mumbling in their sleep,
sprawled upon the dirty factory floor, writhing, troubled by dark dreams.
The trucks, empty, queued up at the shipping doors,
are beginning to leave.