Pen poised in my hand, the lack of movement daunting, 

The lined paper, its vacantness haunting. 

Ideas flutter just beyond my grasp, 

The whispers of forgotten tales swiftly pass,  

A blank page mocking my desperation. 

In a realm of thoughts, where ideas flow a river,  

A drought befalls, leaving a vast wasteland expanse, 

I delve into my memories, longing for a droplet of water, 

But the reservoir is drained. 

A poem I write about serendipity, 

But I wait for the epiphany. 

In the dark, a fire sparks,  

An accident, indeliberate, unexpected, 

An opening of a new world, a lightning strike,  

Bright and exhilarating as you watch it scintillate the dark.  

Serendipity fills the void.