Indecision (Sonnet 2)

This impasse beads cold-sweat upon my brow,

The indecision stays my mind in doubt.

This novel I've been writing twelve-months now,

Has stalled to end a most productive bout.

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If only I could think the next steps out,

Procrastination banish with a spell,

Just rush bull-headed though this irksome drought,

Regain a writing rhythm that will dwell.

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This stoppy-starty pattern is a hell,

Ideas will jape and vanish like white smoke,

The chapters in my mind start to rebel,

And flee, disordered, feeding off the joke.

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A meditative pause might best attack,

The doubts that caused my tale to leave the track.