Poet's drought

Left without words—a poet’s death,
Silence weighed heavy—like a volcano
before eruption.
Yet there I stood—a fool's mate,
eyes fixed on a board already lost.

Unknown were the paths I wandered,
each step a sugar rush toward
the next fleeting Walhalla,
mind shifting from old to new
as I strode in seven-league boots.

Meadows, brooks, and mountains flashed past,
hazy images lingering in mist.
Exhilaration at every arrival kept me high,
dopamine-fueled,
ignoring the shadowed whisper—
that quiet nagger just out of sight.

But at the end, the road delivered me
to a barren desert, stripped of fruit.
In crusted sands, my footprints remained,
rough, uncertain,
mere traces of someone
who once passed this way.