The page screams out

A  faintly blinking blank screen in front

Of the pale face of the writer.

 

 

She stares with list

Disappointment at her failure to subsist on the great words of those

Long before her.

 

 

A barren wasteland of nothing with

Greyish-white splotches in between

The long stretches of the arid tan landscape.

 

 

Clouds on the horizon.

 

 

She stirs in her seat, fidgeting as if

Internally compelled

To physically follow some strange lead.

 

 

An odd compulsion, some strange force,

A whirling windstorm without true direction

To be harvested by some strange wise sultan

 

 

Or a heavy-browed Lawrence of Arabia.

A noble man racing along his horse

To meet the wind-swept hope

 

 

Racing away along the horizon.

He runs along, just beneath,

Into a dark green field of hope and creation.

 

 

The clouds are receding.

Darkish shadows preceding

The transition back into tannish-grey.

 

 

The sultan races again

Through the soft sifting sand

His noble steed bobbing and shuffling along in an effort to reach

 

 

The clouds on the horizon.