This is the time I craved.
The quiet I so sought.
I know the world goes in a blur
And I for now do not.
But here in peace and sunshine
The smell of lilies white
I hold my pen aloft, and then,
I cannot seem to write.
This is the fate of writers:
We have no time for tales.
But when we do, we sit and stew,
As inspiration fails.
postscript
For day three of Ironic, isn't it. Original version contained a non-rhyme in the last stanza to emphasize the irony of inspiration failing, but I thought the joke fell flat. Thoughts?