The page screams out
A faintly blinking blank screen in front
Of the pale face of the writer.
She stares with list
Disappointment at her failure to subsist on the great words of those
Long before her.
A barren wasteland of nothing with
Greyish-white splotches in between
The long stretches of the arid tan landscape.
Clouds on the horizon.
She stirs in her seat, fidgeting as if
To physically follow some strange lead.
An odd compulsion, some strange force,
A whirling windstorm without true direction
To be harvested by some strange wise sultan
Or a heavy-browed Lawrence of Arabia.
A noble man racing along his horse
To meet the wind-swept hope
Racing away along the horizon.
He runs along, just beneath,
Into a dark green field of hope and creation.
The clouds are receding.
Darkish shadows preceding
The transition back into tannish-grey.
The sultan races again
Through the soft sifting sand
His noble steed bobbing and shuffling along in an effort to reach
The clouds on the horizon.