My fingers cling to quill,
And hand trembles,
I try to juxtapose words and words,
But my mind manages only grumbles.
Cuckoo’s croon becomes a cry,
Slippery gullet goes dry,
Thoughts dissociate and then on the head, one of them bangs,
The head, baffled, hangs.
A feeble sleep and exhausted lids,
Fight the indefatigable ideas with grit.
Ideas besmirched in black, white and grey,
Wanting to gush out from the jail, to me they pray.
My head is bethralled by termites
In the form of thoughts, dark and bright
That ask me,
When will I write…