I awoke last night with an intense burning of writing for you.
The words had already arranged themselves
And the punctuation had settled down.
But instead of granting them peace,
And transcribing them,
I closed my eyes
and climbed my cherry tree again.
Now I am sitting here trying to recapture
The eloquence and fluidity
That graced me last night.
I stare at the fire,
Rekindling thoughts of you –
But all I get left with are ashes,
- no phoenix.
I submerge myself in water,
Looking for you there –
But everything evaporates,
- leaving not a drop to quench my quest.
I pick up a pen,
To write it out of me –
But the once permanent, continuous ink,
- no trace.
I have to content myself
To being available at your leisure…
(No amount of fire or water
Will ever be able to spawn inspiration)