She was the first to read it all.
The sprouts peeked through the dirt.
She watered them with wonder.
My masterpieces shot up, a testament to her.
But now she's gone.

You know, inspiration is in short supply.
I'm addicted, have been since we first talked.
Now my source has disappeared.
My metaphors seem strained.
And the pen seems foreign on my fingertips

Where are you?
Have you given up?
Given in to this world we used to laugh at?
Or are you still waiting...
For your angel with a shotgun?