Sitting here, amidst these ruins
Waiting for something to come
Be it train or deer or people
I hope it's soon--I'm going numb

I wish there'd be a gentle breeze
To stir the moisture in the air
Then, perhaps, I'd concentrate
On poetry, not sweaty hair

An hour passes, perhaps two
Or maybe only twenty minutes?
I can't quite focus--this is hard
I might just listen to the crickets

But I'm not quitter--this'll get done
All I need's a bit more inspiration
This oil well of creativity is running dry
My artsy engine's suffering from dehydration

Guess I'll dig and drill and dig some more
Until I hit a vein of ingenuity
Perchance the topic'd be of love
Or of some ethereal obscurity

Yet pen to paper doesn't click
No matter how it's written
Not love, not pain, not anything
Appears to simply fit in

So after several hours here
I think I have decided
To simply base this poem on
What life now has provided.