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.