Inspiration is but an enigma;

An ever so mysterious stranger

Who wanders through a landscape

Composed by an eroded imagination.


It is a life-giving river

Where perfect words and phrases

Flow freely with the current

While the stream weaves its way

Through the vast expanse

Of the intuitve mind.


But then these waters lie away,

Entrapped in a deep ravine

Of the inner subconscious.

So not even the sunlight

Of awakening realization

Can stretch its hand

Into the deep beneath.


Therefore it is true

That one must patiently wait

Until the dry season has passed.

Then, perhaps, the dam will break,

And the waters of the spirit

Will make its way down

And through this metaphorical river

For yet another fruitful season.