Where flits my muse on her midnight wings, while my page lay stark and bare?
Does she softly to another sing, while I sigh and blankly stare?
My notebook page will not comply, scorns an eager pen,
Un-filled lines go marching by, with no messages to send,
They mock my brain that longs for prose, to fill the empty space,
Sitting here with frozen toes, my ink will leave no trace.