Tempest

Friday 1 February 2008

Inspiration gone dry

Thoughts brush past
just like drafts of wind.
I close my eyes
to sift through its many hues and dyes.
To hold one still,
In the palm my hand
To colour it bright,
Like that rainbow not in sight.
I hold in that cry,
as my inspiration runs dry.

To write a tale of glory,
And run up that trail of victory.
To feel the strokes of the pen
as the ideas run through in tens.
To revel in a moment of discovery
Beyond the cocoon of uncontained misery.
I hold in that cry,
As my inspiration runs dry.

To see a spot of green,
in the sky of blue.
For a word of encouragement,
to make this seem true.
To walk through a meadow of marigolds,
And let go of fears never told.
To wake up in the middle of a fantasy,
And feel its touch of ecstasy.
I hold in that cry,
As my inspiration runs dry.

Yet they twirl before my eyes,
Like temptations of lies.
In words that that seem not to form,
those meaningful lyrics now dorm.
They yearn to awaken,
And dance with the dreams forsaken.
To tap these yarns of lore,
And create magic ever more.
I hold in that cry,
As my inspiration runs dry.

Posted by Pavitra :: 03:11 :: 24 comments