Writer's Block

A poem in memory of someone that does exactly what it says on the tin.

Writer's Block

The page is blank before me
It has been blank for so long
All the words just marched away
The second you were gone
Running down the paper
Washed away in grief
Shadows linger on the page
An echoed dark relief
Relief that they once dwelled there
Though no one else can see
Where the ink has spoken
Whispered just for me
A sonnet loosed upon the breeze
Too sweet to be contained
Wind chimes mark your memory
Winter holds the pain
Within its whitewashed canvas
Where wind chimes hold the court
Whistling on foreign winds
Life’s icy cold retorts
A language I don’t understand
To me the writings there
The seasons bear their apathy
They neither know nor care
For the haunted page before me
With its spectral ashen song
Singing through the wind chimes
Singing for so long