No words left

There's rent to be paid by the tenth -
It's done.

And doctors' bills for ills and chills,
all done.

Deadlines obeyed, dues paid,
yes, done.

Stories told, products sold,
we're done

Squeezed them out past block and drought,
they're done.

The yoke of words bespoke -
undone.

Free now to write what i want to write but...
i'm done.


(The detritus of my aborted ghazal, reassembled in another form)