Writer's Block IV

Constructed, constricted,
The hand lies down unannounced at the side of the curb.
Where has Calliope left her bread crumbs for me?
It all connects upon this finely honed dot,
So light that a mountain would waver before it,
So small that the ocean forbade it,
So inexcusable that I cannot sleep;
Not anymore.

Obstructed, obliterated,
My mind takes in the surroundings in a long flaying motion,
Now undertaking a dodgy worthy task,
Now burying its outcomes deep in the upheavals of the past.
The foggy moors call out loud,
But if a man hangs to dry at the city,
Who will hear the call?

Petrified, pitied,
I sulk again at the now closer images that threaten to run down
Pillars of ribbons and scaffolds of grey,
Towering within my empty self,
Single, unique, lost.