Thistling Poem by Nicholas Iksel

My fingers find no solace at pen to paper,
yet my mind beckons to finish the caper.

No heart can endure such quizzical receptions,
for this is life un-exact in daily reflections.

Can one not forgo this precarious predicament -
my fingers at coffee, noodles - are justifications due diligent?

I finally found the warmth of my desire,
here in this room abound in bricks; not a spire.

Where else would I go upon this dismal of Sundays?
Can I read or escape, lest I travel past Monday?

Here, oh maiden, are you listening?
I lay on a sofa, for now tired, sick, the paper finally thistling.