My inspiration hides by day,

By night it shies from view;

And try to find it as I may,

No gleam of hope shines through.

I feel the touches of its wings

Like moths against a light;

I hear its faint voice call and sing,

But it stays out of sight.

My pen sits idly on the page,

It waits for words to come,

And time draws on to my old age,

The couplets stay undone.

I dream of far off places,

Of heroes and of sins,

I picture empty spaces

Where only language wins.

My spirit strains to reach it

That fount of words which flow,

I strain for it in thought and speech, it

flees as though it knows.

I know my humble yearnings

Of writing soaring verse

Are changing as the tides are turning,

They merge and then disperse.

My weary soul can take no more,

My failure cuts me deep;

The silence sits within my core

And I can barely weep.

I take up pen and paper

And swear to cease for good;

When suddenly an unseen vapour

Creeps o'er me like a hood.

My mind is filled with wonders,

With flashes, sparks and song;

The words now ring like thunder

And I know that they belong.

I write down every feeling,

I note down every shade;

The force still leaves me reeling

As the warmth begins to fade.

My hands, they shake, as I am left

With nought but ringing ears;

My pen falls to the floor, bereft,

And I must face my fears.

I know one day I will awake

To find the fount is dry;

I know my soul will start to ache

And yearn to soar on high.

My life devoid of all its charm

I'll beg for help in prayer,

I'll shout aloud and raise my arms

And words will take me there.

I'll send my spirit to the space

Where language swims in sun,

I'll live eternally in grace

And know, at last, I won.