The challenge goes on,
and trying every fibre,
until one of them snaps.
The oak tree is bare,
its arms reach, out to the sky,
calling back the spring.
With green tender shoots,
and a warmest in the air,
that stirs new young leaves.
The arms of the chair,
cradle in a special way,
that speak of resting.
Now, I wonder where,
the inspiration halted,
and bland stuff started.
To moon’s been hiding,
behind thick clouds and careful,
not to be seen out.
The finger tap out,
the letters of heavy words,
that weigh the page down.
A ray of bright light,
streams across the page and shows,
the words are afraid.
Gathering in lines,
they huddle together cold,
and now unfeeling.
They refuse to move,
and one by one they are gone,
and new words are formed.
It is therapy,
a treatment for his work stress,
punishment in kind.
The chair is empty,
and turned away from the screen,
that it sees all day.
A glass fell and broke,
with a loud crash and was gone,
broken in pieces.
