For many-a-days, idle remained,
My pen and my book of poems.
For I was at a strange new place,
Far away from my home.
I was thrilled, also scared,
Eager, but also worried.
For never, was I spared,
Of the surprises that I met here.
I was free for the first time ever,
But so was I alone, anxious and cold.
Days seemed to go on forever and ever.
And I missed my home, my room and more.
A poetic block (!) wrapped around my soul,
Making it shiver in its gripping hold.
To break free of which, I have to be bold,
And find, I did now, an escape of some sort.
My old sheen, I haven't regained,
Which, in time, I'm sure I will.
And once again will I start to write,
Merely looking over a window sill.