I want to be subtle
adroit
mysterious
instead my thoughts
thrash about
for all the world to see
like worn sheets
blowing
in the wind
clumsy and drab
what I write sounds insipid
no mystique
no complexity
I call to my Muse
she does not come
what would it take to bribe her
I'll sell my soul to her
does she not know this
I'll give her my heart
doesn't she know
it's already hers
others have steadfast muses
who walk with them
who dream for them
then
guiding their hands
recall those dreams
my muse doesn't dream anymore
not at night
not in the day
my mind is dull and bare
a dust-bowl farm
nothing grows
winds removing
layer
after
layer
my heart and soul arid
like parched
white
desert bones
lying lonely
on expanse
of
graveyard
where nothing moves
save tumbleweed
brittle
and empty
where barbed
sentinels
hoard
the moisture
within
tough
impenetrable
skin
will there come
a rainy season
will there?
will springs refill
the well?
Not knowing how deep a "well" goes:
I grew up in the country. We had well water from an ancient deep well. My father always worried it would dry up...give up for good. It never did.
I thought of this after I wrote.
