Inspiration is but fleeting:
A flinching moment in the night.
Its carnal tongue preceding
The shiftless cardinal sin of SIGHT
So with these winds of discontent
I’ll wander aimlessly in search
Of rabble-rousing wonderment
To inflame these embers wracked
Because in your absence, in this wake
A flame refuses to unfurl.
IT languishes in malady
Tepid in its stubborn coil
And in this flaccid freedom,
I’m untended in respite.
As in this tone-deaf melody,
An opus spurns its heights.