Rhythms Falter

My fingers hover half a breath from harvesting a budding storm but rhythms falter, unimpressed beneath word-tides I would possess and drown in squirming moons to mourn. My fingers hover half a breath, my listless pen held limp at breast in hope my muse might be reborn but rhythms falter, unimpressed. Insatiable the emptiness I can not fill with rhythmic scorn. My fingers hover half a breath so tempted by poetic quests that leave them damp and hiccup-worn but rhythms falter, unimpressed. Unquenchable, the thirst for depth, the prick of penetrating thorn My fingers hover half a breath but rhythms falter, unimpressed.