The page is clean of words

But ideas are spilling over.

When inspiration takes a grip, it’s him

Who’s often standing there

Behind a soundproof window. We cannot touch,

We cannot speak, but only look upon and guess.

My pen wants to write, my hand wants to guide,

But I’m standing in a time-loop

Of inspiration guarded by a barrier of glass.

I want to call out to him, I want him to provide me with words,

Create something tangible that I can grasp.