Words falter, flicker,
like a moist match head
producing sulfuric stench
dropping its ash.
Ideas flit through synapses
dead end at fingertips.
Oh fleeting poetic muse,
thou has forsaken me.
Clouds filter lunar rays,
dullness ensues.
I am spent.
lillian the home poet 
A great poetic voice and tone to this one. However… the genius of the wording tells me the voice doth protest too much (or something like that). Nice work!
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Ditto.
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The image nicely matches the poem with its gloom and clouds. In this poem I hear your desperation, desire to write but words are not coming… very nice. 🙂
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Brava.. 🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀
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It’s amazing how great poems can come from a faintly flickering muse. I particularly enjoy: ‘Ideas flit through synapses dead end at fingertips.’
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