MY WELL OF WORDS

My well of words ran dry and thin,
Aching whispers, barely within.
Ideas flickered, then faded to gray,
Sentences starved, with nothing to say.

Lines, once flowing, became a barren track,
Incomplete thoughts, never coming back.
Paragraphs, hollow, mere empty shells,
Echoing silence where meaning once dwelled.

Pages, stark white, a canvas so bare,
Chapters unfinished, hanging in air.
The book lay dormant, a story untold,
A vessel of dreams, growing weary and cold.

But wait, in the hush, a faint ember glows,
A spark of inspiration, a new story grows.
I'll gather the fragments, the whispers arise,
Rekindle the inkwell, with hope in my eyes.