history

Rivers run dry as my poetic voice quiets.  Trees dry up with my inspiration.  Animals hibernate with my muses who wait for me without intent of being so.  I cannot think of what to say with this wall in her place surrounding the inner voice in me that has painted the walls a different color every day.  Instead in it lies stress worry anger hate not fate for now and then will go the rest to the rear lost out of sight.  In my transition of transformation my mind has lost the key out the doorway and into my car to drive to the most beautiful places and my gas never runs dry and i try and try and what is more is that for now my mind cannot be still in its thoughts although the creative creek bed is dry waiting is the reservoir with clay cracking and breaking it is only time until rivers will run wild with poetry love drunkenness and life once more and so i sit biding my time along the river bank with pen in hand writing of such woe and mystery to when this time will be only history