027: flow

The beat drops. Yet all the pen can give is frustrated line after line of empty words, turns of phrase that lead into dead ends of dead air. The poet of the beat throws aside headphones into a box of crumpled rhymes unspoken, the beats drowning in balls of paper flooding over the floor. He looks up at the icons of his art, portraits of poets suspended above the cold slab of steel from which all his greatest rhymes are born. The eyes of those who came before look on in blessing. Living eyes open wide. The poet begins anew...