I Write Not Often.
Mostly, I Wait.
For Inspiration.
For Motivation.
For A Streak of Fire to Light
The Starless Night,
For Rough Winds To Break Waves
In The Still Waters
Of my Lonely Life.
I Wait.
I Wait To Feel.
I Wait For The Pain To Come
Like A Heavy Breeze,
For Shadows To Fill The Horizons
Of My Mind, And Fate
To Weigh Weary On My Bones.
Only Then Will She Come.
When I Hear Whispers In The Dark
And Can No Longer Bury In Silence
The Echoes Of My Thoughts.
When Necessity,
Iron Necessity,
Demands That I Give In —
That I Grant Rest To A Restless Soul
That’s Known Naught But Suffering.
Only Then Does She Embrace Me.
She Cares Not That My Pen Lay Dormant
For Season Upon Season;
The Trades Of Men
Are No Concern Of Hers;
She Is No Muse.
She Is Mercy.
Sweet, Sweet Mercy.