how is it that abstinence remains?

how is it that there is nothing to write?
is it that silences extend a warmer welcome?
how is it that there are a hundred thoughts for a single greeting word ?
is it that words find too much resistance
how is it that there is nothing to tell?
or is it that i find myself too tired of the effort
is it that my verse has dried up,
or is it that my parched ears taste seldom a sound?
how is it that i seek much more from these delusions?
how is it that abstinence remains?
how is it that dreams falter?
is it that figment that was never meant to be?
how is it that, this figment homes in me?