I was too empty for words, nothingness gnawing at my insides, where rhythm and rhyme used to picket and pulse. And maybe there’s richness in the silent calm of nothings. Empty flower beds waiting, for the next buds of spring. Yet spring has now sprung From whence will the words come With which I seduce? When will I see her bloom Through the craft of my care? The words, well up within When I see her Truly see her ...