My mind is a rattling cage,
Spitting fire toward empty furnaces.
Nothing grows in this barren land,
No fruit, no soul, no thriving bloom of spectacular imagery
Can I not think? Have I lost my mind?
My dreams as hopeless and dry as a rusted desolate home,
craving to have use.
I see beauty, I feel it in my bones. I hear it in the voices of the wind
and the sky.
      It shrills through the dust, lifting stories to the wind.
But I cannot paint it. I cannot sing it. I cannot write it,
      for the appetite of my meaning
I am lost.