The poet woke every day
With rekindled hope of revival
Desperate for a word to say
Sweet words that are vital

The white washed ruins or shattered possession
Tell the story of material obsession
The war fought over useless gold
Making young grow old

I go out into the wastes of yesteryear
In search of food and water
Cold winter wind whips past my ear
The snow will fall
And with it my world.

I will write again soon,
But for now I must rest.