Dried Up
Once I was a spring -
words and art flowed forth from me.
But now inspiration is an ooze -
a slow and tortured trickle.
No longer refreshing, cool water,
but a sticky, sour sap.
So the leaves and pages wither.
Like an oil well drilled in shale
so abundant at first -
yet so quickly does it fade.
But surely creativity is not limited -
except by time.
I must find my way back to the source.
I need rescue from this nightmare -
of being awake, yet unable to delight in life.
Far more terrifying than boredom is interest
without the will to pursue it.
13 June 2021
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