Where, I ask, exhausted, did my creativity go?
Was it shadowed by my many burdens
and finally let go?
Did I forget to save a seat for it
while I rode the highway of life –
carrying every ounce of every day
in a heavy sack by my side?
Did I leave my creativity far behind
and outside of the boundaries
I once hungered to avoid reviving in my mind?
Or has it leapt ahead of me,
light-years away to a time
I could never expect to write or reach?
And will it only greet me again
in the next life
in shoes that another more
worldly and traveled other would wear
better than the ones I, alone, attempt to fit?
Have I,
just a here-and-now speck of dust
that tumbles aimlessly along,
reached the limit I somehow self-inflicted
earlier on
to stop me from rhyming more
about what I might never know,
or perhaps, am never meant to find?
Shall my questions be the soothing pets
that follow me like loyal friends
but somehow stay an arms length away
and whisper secrets I could never
– even with a stethoscope –
allow myself to hear?
Knowing what I know, would I detain them
to keep them near?
Shall I, neither ancient, nor elder,
try to understand the heart-beat silence that,
like a disease, runs impatiently through these veins?
If it returned, would my creative other
fall like pounding rain into my arms and dissolve itself of any sin
by becoming, yet again, a part of what it once was in?
Would my creativity starve, or feast,
by sinking and syncing deep within?
If I handed it the keys, I am certain
we would both deserve to win;
but neither I can, and neither it will,
because without each other
we simply
– both –
are frozen, less, and still.

Piece by formless piece of me, compose of new desires:
write me back to life before my hope, deterred, retires.
Inflate my heart until it finds itself in soothing flight
and sprout for me the wings I need to beat its rhythm right.

Expand my lungs to fill with life and bleed this void no more;
to breathe ambition in until it seeps from every pore.
Expression filled with written words, my storm to self-empower,
yet, in this silent wash of time I very humbly shower.

Find within my shadows proof of flawless, lustrous light;
elucidate my purpose, forming day from cloudy night.
Write of peace, a balm, to heal my bleakly fractured power -
a vision, rich, to seed and plant, and soon, I hope, to flower.

Inspire my eroding soul with passion to ignite;
a reason to awaken, fresh; a fervour to incite.
Harmonise expression to unlock what I admire;
write me back to life before I, sadly, might expire.

somewhere
there is a space
where I will find myself
amongst the dust that falls so calmly through the air.
I’ll find my purpose lingering there.

meanwhile
I’ll stay partitioned off from ghosts
and other 5th dimension beings –
sharing this part of the room
with my cold desire to belong.