confusing doodles of my thoughts.

Confronted by a blank page, there occurs,

Like heat transfer from hot to cold,

so the blankness of the page to my mind.

In trance I sit and stare unthinking,

a stagnant pond somewhere behind my eyes.

Where’s the flow of images,

distilled personal summary of hours spent,

reading, reflecting and living?

Gone. Vanished.

My  hope is that like a fine wine,

distillation is not yet complete.

Perhaps some inner hydrometer

controls my specific gravity,

so that only when mature

can fragrance and flavour be enjoyed.