At the beginning of your life
there was a mellow September medley
of word-berries, ripening for the picking.
But before the fruit, the pain.
Art demands blood gobbets of sacrifice,
whittled to bare bone, raw and pared down,
before new verse shrieks its bloody birth.
Keep your faithlessness in check, stay true,
wrapped up, as you are, in your silk spools,
glittering a diaphanous language dance.
Keep your ear attuned to the stillness,
listening for those otherworldly word-wisps,
that will-o-the-wisp waltz with inspiration,
its ephemeral here-then-gone.
Do not thirst for an oasis of words,
but trust that after each drought
fresh words will gather and burst
like first drops of rain,
a new lexicon storming your head.
And though you yearn and burn for normality
it was never your fortune and forte.
Know that new life takes many guises,
creation is different for all;
it is the human condition and call.
And at the end of it all
awaits a springtime of ripening word-buds;
each one that curled dormant in your heart will unfurl
poems blossoming into perfumed flowers.