Hello, writer's block, my old friend.
I've come to scream at you again.
Because the poem I was thinking,
left my mind while I was drinking.
And the picture, that was growing in my head,
lies there dead.
No more the screams of conscience.
Out of mind, I trudged to home.
Empty seats within the dome.
Teeth of widow slowly clamp,
I wouldn't bother with the gold or tamp.
Empty lies are touched in the clash of dione's fright,
without the light,
and grabbed the screams of conscience.
Within the dated sight we draw.
In house and steeple, shady shore.
Ample walking throughout shrieking,
trample jeering devout asking.
Fearful axing wrongs with branches amber flare,
and all that care,
unnerve the screams of conscience.
Ghouls, I cry, few to spot grow.
Consciense strike the armor's pose.
Clearing high birds at height beach too.
Break alarms to delight each hue.
In thy thirds, spike arrant hilltop's wells.
That narrowed in the hells of conscience.
With the beagle loud and grayed,
from the bygone flawed of May.
With the wine stashed spout in brawling,
in the curds that it was aging.
With the shrine dead, the blurred from the bandit were
smitten at the highway falls.
The bewitchment calls,
and altered the screams of conscience.