When The Well Is Dry

What’s the point of writing, just to write?
The well is dry, there’s no words left
hiding in the mortared walls of my creativity.
I look at the snow, snow we rarely get,
and see just that, instead, of an invasion
of white hedonistic flies procreating on dead grass;
eventually, leaving the slush of their sin
to stain our soles going out for the mail.
I drop my thoughts down the dark shaft,
again and again, hoping for lines to fill
the empty strapped slats of a page.