The block

It was like quicksand
The more I tried, the deeper I sank
The more I sank, the darkness intensified.
The sheet was white, without a blemish of ink
Not a word flowed out of the nib of that exquisite fountain pen.
It was rendered useless, just as a broken string.
Trees, fountains, winds and waves
Neither stirred the mind enough to string sentences within.
The entrapment, the block
Staring with its glassy eyes
Enraging the soul with doubt and fear.
Doubt spawned fear, fear stung like hemlock
Deadlock.
Solace was found in the melancholic impotency
And the virginity of the sheet was at last marred.
Finally.
Yes, finally
The written word spoke.