being famished, malnourished of the words,
adorned on a sapphire platter, looking sumptuous,
but as I try to pick one of them, it disappears,
leaving behind thin air, devoid of those nouns,
adjectives, verbs and prepositions, I so desire,
but they are not for me to grab, and gobble down,
I am meant to sleep empty, without a trace
of something creative, to simmer in my mind,
the concoction of imagination, thus remains dried,
and I look for the flies with an incredible vision,
into the worlds of worlds of chronicles,
so that I could seize them into my fist and
appeal for a single ray of light, that could
awaken my senses, making me experience things,
agitating me to see new dreams, the slivers
of which can be scattered on the pages,
bringing to existence, the wondrous universes,
still unexplored, for me to step through,
and find that one fruit I could feast upon,
to fill up my drained urn with a fragment,
of a blessing of that miraculous muse