Alas the poem’s beyond my grasp.
The muse elides,
The words fade fast.
Between my skill and need I’m torn,
Bereft of rhymes and left forlorn.
Will the sun rise again?
Will night end and day begin?
Then like the fool that I’ve become
Rhymes beat, my brain their drum.
Oddly enough, this poem emerged almost fully complete as I woke up one morning.