Well, in the weight of it,
All these thoughts that bury a spark
Creativity suffocates in the absence of light
Where these clawing arms reach from the floorboards
To pull me under tenebrous silhouettes -
Ripping my skin to the **** of my soul
Poking their rods to extinguish my all,
I am famished from the hunger for a muse in the music
I am thirsty for a tide of color -
Oppressed by the terrorist of harmony,
A prisoner of war in my melancholy.

I wander across a silent land
As a miserably lonely man
Following the call of
An early morning bird

With nothing in my head,
And nothing in my hands

The bird, in all its morning cheer
Chirps and trills for all to hear
It sings even though there is no crowd,
Its song is as magnificent as it is loud

It holds its head up, proud and high,
It looks up daringly at the sky,
Like the clouds are challenging it
To fly

It leaves the branch it rested on
Wings spreading as it took off
And I still remain a lonely wight,
But maybe I, too, can take flight.

Clouds blanket the sky.
The wind toussles beneath them
and splashes my face.