(The grit of my soul)
There was a determination, that day
The hallowed call of Poetry.

How hard simply to write words
With a rhythmic ebb and flow? Humankind
Is born with a flow of blood, of air, of hope
That produces this rhythm. Inborn.
Innate. Instinctive. Inhaled.

So I filled the well of my pen (as I usually do)
With my soul, but the ink
Was congealed. My words ran together
On the page, and the chunks
Repeatedly stopped my pen, or else
Came through, and looked like vomit.
Normally the lines flowed over the page
In steady streams of midnight silver.
The appearance of the writing…
I thought I ought to strain the ink.