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 and trees grow with haste,
Enveloping you in darkness and fright.

You open the pages which felt like home,
And you've become your own stranger.
Canvases used to blush but now a grey tone.
This used to be a place you savoured.

But all of this is just a story you told,
And therefore, it's yours to retell.
No pen ever runs dry, no matter how old,
So, lift your pen and dip it in your well.