I saw my essay running away, with folded legs and pointed toes;
scurrying away from me,
to seek the unknown freedom from a writer’s hand.
I chased it long and hard, for my dreams and thoughts it had stolen.
But it stepped in a puddle, and lost its legs.
Laying down. Twitching in the breeze.
We both lost that day.
So in my dreary writer’s block, I mourn the loss of hope.
Listen close, I see my fatal error:
I did not give it wings.