Two years have passed,
two years of dryness.
Dryness of throat,
dryness of thought.
So many nights spent in days past,
inspired by the muse of bourbon,
encouraged by the delusions,
of demonically quenched thirst,
Gone now. Thank the Gods.
So many nights spent in recent past
searching for the inspiration
longing for the ease
with which I scribed back then.
The inspiration of drink
no more my muse.
The desperation seeps in
unknowingly at first.
Till one reads the words of friends.
Realization of two years gone by
and nary a poetic word writ.
the pathetic attempt at art,
my first attempt, my first push.
Back into the poetic world
Hesitant, yet head held high.
This is desperation's inspiration,
the act of writing, just to write
the act of hoping just to hope.
To break loose from the bondage of
my forced prison of sobriety
and refill the ink well,
with pigment not mixed
with the devilish brew.
Yesterday is ash, tomorrow is smoke; only today does the fire burn.
Nil Desperandum, Fata viem invenient