I ponder, perhaps too much, of how I've lost my touch. I wonder if, in my delusion, it was just a dreamed haven. Somewhere in the hours of meditation, someway I've lost my salvation. My thoughts are trapped and closed like a man-lake is cement opposed, like soaring eagles discover they are just gifted wren actors, or the chlorine stinging your eyes is the spray of ocean waves crying. I feel like a snuffed candle trying to burn, a cloud wisp trying to rain, a parched rose trying to flourish, a winter breeze trying to warm your fingers. Suddenly I feel a kith with the discarded plastic bottles littering my beach, for, like them, I am searching for a purpose out of reach: the woes of a cursed wordsmith.
ranting about my loss of muse/inspiration
