When inspiration leaves,
leaves falling from a yellow-wood in fall;
you feel your hands freeze,
you fell your life halt.
It's the winter of the mind,
just surviving, existing,
not living but believing
that so is life, being soul blind.
The expectancy for the rising sun,
the endless wait for the muses to come
back from wherever they are hiding,
or perhaps, away from me they are flying.
When inspiration comes...
soldiers returning home,
not only welcomed yet being longed for.
Inspiration is the end of thought war.
Ecstasy, euphoria, catharsis,
the world moves, it quits from stasis.
And from the depths of the blackest darkness,
its light brightens, shines and rises.