The Trails of the Writer

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

Internally compelled

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.

This poem is about: 
My community
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741