i wish for inspiration to grip me
much like desperate lovers’ frustration fraught hands.
like a flickering flame,
blossoming within a dusty, discarded fireplace;
creating a benevolent warmth on a harsh midwinter’s eve.
how grand it would be to be taken with innovation,
tangled up in a whirlwind waltz of the desire
to be, to create, to exist.
if imagination were to knock at the door,
whisk you away from dull nothingness,
and inane repetition of merely mortal mundane life;
would you fancy that?
it’s a lovely thought, too lovely a thought for souls such as us—
withering, obsolete, no room left for passion’s heat.
we are husks:
exoskeletons,
ghosts of invigorated individuals that once were.
now
all we are
is long-forgotten scratchily-scrawled history.