The pen is quiet on the white paper,
my thoughts skip like stones, forever
skipping, none to land upon the blank.
My mind invaded by swift impressions
which travel with the wings of wind;
words silenced in the eye of a storm.
Turbulence from undercurrents, created
whirlpools; l can not find familiarity
in the depths of these stirred pools,
from where the pen has stopped flowing.