When belief in your pen runs dry,
It leaves a lonely page staring back.
Nothing appears despite how hard you try,
Imparting a feeling you've lost your knack.

The sacred space once filled with zest,
Now dim, dusty and barely lit.
Cobb webs gather around the chest,
Once filled with treasures from grit.

These fields you once ran with grace,
Now overgrown and no path in sight.
The shrubs...

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