I need a restorative moment;
A logical governance to hold me over
Until my shoulders broaden to bear my own burdens,
And thirst is worked into my words;
Parched of the sparks
That create agitation in the alleyways of debate
And shape the pace of surrounding streets.
Dried fruit rooms crowd
The houses where my less than rousing
Verse once grew,
Now pressed of any juice worth brewing;
Over-stewed and mashed passed the point of news
To elucidate an aim
Or paint a picture on once eager walls.
The ceilings of the echoes they once stored
Or amassed upon the door jambs
For when renditions were wished for,
And slates of crusted sentences collect across
The warped floor boards
Or fall beneath to keener ears,
Where the desiccated
Congregate and reach to catch the hatchlings
Of a hopeful mind
That sighs a little higher every time they fall.
So call me inspiration and I will fill
Your pit with thoughts fit for orchestration
Once I’ve been soothed by time’s renewal.