The Frozen Forge

A forge falls cold and ink runs dry
As the creator himself lets out a sigh.
He shifts in place from here to there
As if the fault lies within his chair.
Head resting foward with eyes shut,
Searching for words he lets out a "tut".
Ideas and rhymes dance through thought,
Though a complete creation cannot be caught.
A poem, a story, a sketch would be nice
But the long woken hours have come with a price.
No pretty words to make the heart soar,
Or fanciful stories to make them crave more.
His brain taxed and his body aching,
Perhaps he'll have more luck upon waking.
Desires unfulfilled and with nothing to write,
Our quiet creator turns in for the night.