I've often thought of writing again
My fingers itch for the keys or the page
My past works depicting my despair & pain
What have I now, in this, second stage?
I've written of memories, faded & grey
I've stitched together notes with nothing behind
Perhaps it could be, I've naught left to say
Perhaps it could be, my third eye has gone blind
I could write of sunsets in early October nights
I could write of seaside in stormy morning
Write of fables in darkness & dreams infinite
These things hold me, but not my yearning
In what I haven't yet, I've what I've always;
And when these words flow, they flow in his name.