His blog posts became infrequent. The latest draft wasn’t touched up for a month. Storey after storey, the high-rise completely covered the orphanage and the adjacent park from his view.
The builders successfully created a permanent writers’ block for the paralysed poet.
Dead leaves now cover the place,
Where their shadows once fell,
A grim ceremony marked,
By echoes of an unseen knell.
A temporal shroud of greyness,
Thrown over balding heads.
A metallic coldness of doorknobs,
Clear vision which steadily fades.
Air like a hundred needles,
A reptile huddled up beneath some momentary warmth.
Dead trees burn in happy homes,
Stories woven around the red-brick hearth.
All disperse as night falls fast,
A web of frosts glistens on trees,
Black rocks wait for the morning light,
However weak, the sun at last.