where does the desire to write come from?
where does it go
into hiding or does it slip away
like magic dust
as flying children who no longer belief
in fairies, santa, god,
or anything else
slip out of the sky onto the ground
Where are the muses who grace
poets' gardens in their dreams
gone when they are bored
through with you
do they all wither away
leaving dead bushes and winter
do they sail away wiping
colours off your dreams
and paintings become black and white stills
of dead things
which once moved
and you wait for their return
and wonder
Why that love and desire to weave words
and to string them up like
little pieces of treasures you gather by the sea is
stilled like the sea breeze that
now blows the hot desert wind of sand
and dryness
exxcept now that same sea
only tosses out dead clumps of weed
hair of drowned muses
and dark oil patches
which is the only real thing that matters in our world
and everything is desert
even that single drop of inspiration has to be squeezed out
and preserved
and I thirst