#27 William Forsythe – Poet

Hope is a many feathered thing that takes off flying with a tethered wing.

No that’s useless. Worthless. Tripe. Worse than tripe. It’s doggerel. Shit. Crap. Ass. A complete and utter waste of pen, paper and ink. I could have vomited on my desk and created something of more value.

Why can I not write anymore? What has changed? These same hands that once created words of such beauty and majesty that they could stir the hearts and minds of men now can barely find enough inspiration to spill across the page.

My works put an end to wars that have lasted for generations. The romances of my characters have inspired more love and worship than even the Goddess Aphrodite has ever done.  Why now does it fail? Now at the moment that I need the words the most.

The King has decreed that I write a play to celebrate his son’s return from pilgrimage. It is not a difficult request. I have done dozens of these plays for those that wish to tell of their work on God’s quest. But even though I have labored these past months and there is but a fortnight before the Prince’s return, I have nothing.

It will not do to so displease the King, presently nothing to tell of his son’s good works and virtue in heathen lands. And all I can do is stare at these blank pages and cry to my muse to return to me.

Category: 2011