Words on vacation

The sheet is clear as a winter morning

Not a single word drips from the quill

Fleeting hours have completed a marathon

Yet the page remains pure and still

Below the skies and above the earth-

The path through which roams my head

Every word seems alien on paper

Each thought too peculiar to be said

Between my hand and the soft pages

A wall sits and sighs heavily

And both become impatitent

As I try to find my mind's key