The Wilderness Years
What can I do when the spring runs dry?
Words refuse to come,images die
In the desert of the mind,only drought
No oasis in sight,there's none about
The searing sun of silence allows for no shade
Where the dues of poetry must be fully paid
In this harsh light there is no chiaroscuro
No verse of any kind can I beg or borrow
But tired I must trudge on, bruised,broken and weary
Until I find the land of poetry near me.
Prayers to the aloof Muses I must invoke
To release me from this arid desert's grim yoke
If they would but kindly choose to hear and listen
My Pierian spring might once again glisten
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