The Cold and the Damp

The house feels cold.
Bereft of the familiar
I sit on the chair,
waiting...
Wanting to feel the surge of creativity
but,
everything is a blank canvas.
My head hurts
even more than the heart aches
at this loss of opportunities
of things gone by
grudgingly,
some that make me repent
endlessly.
The moaning
the anger
that spits in my throat
unable to find a voice.
Wrong choices haunt so long, so far
the wait turns the dead clock hands
into a vintage archive
waiting to be discovered by another
dreamer
and
jughead.