Writer's Blight

I came to write
in morning light;
let words take flight
where e’er they might.

And, yet, despite
my muse’s might,
some sour sprite
my brain did blight.

And fraught with fright
I felt the bite
of this wee wight,
this parasite,

who left me slight;
my slate blank white;
no words in sight.
Most impolite!

It may be trite—
this writer’s plight—
rendered quite
the troglodyte,

I fought the fight
with wit, with spite,
but now starlight
is shining bright.

I could sit tight
and wrest to write,
but rest feels right
and, so, good night.

What more can I say?
I’ll write another day.