Parched - Mar 11

Again the well of poetry was dry, My pail was drawing up no deep inspired Thought or subject matter. All was dull, tired, Stale water, no exciting trick to try. Once more the fountain gave me naught but sigh And sigh of lukewarm breadth — of old expired Content, no fresh drop of song so desired. Blessed muse of music, you heard my dire cry! Pulling at the cord, hoisting and heaving, I felt the bucket slosh again—with life! Patiently, ladling out ideas delayed, I splashed myself with fresh drink. Relieving A murky mind, I felt renewed and rife. And thus of nothingness was something made.