by brian francis
Seeking out the source of inspiration
I found myself in a deep dry well.
Nothing there could offer stimulation.
So alone I built myself a living hell.
Hidden in dusty volumes: past consideration.
Doodles lining margins, once passing time.
Scanning ancient notes with contemplation
Finding only aggregate no thoughts to bind.
In frustration I lashed out against creation
Yet again my drunken muse does not respond.
So alone I sit in my silent meditation,
Imagining the banks of Walden Pond.
Then gently, without notice, sleep overtakes me.
The day then fades away and soon is gone.
Dreams, torment, and chase; will not let me be.
A restless soul who fights to carry on.
When morning comes and wakes my sleeping sorrow
Another day to seek and find that, what I need.
A turn of phrase or a thought which I might borrow.
Anything that will help me germinate the seed.
Copyright © 2021 brian francis
Wordsmith: At The Forge 