From The Soul

Inspiration comes in many forms, 

From the birds singing out, 

To the knife on the floor.

Inspiration is seen in the exiled eye, 

As rage keeps them burning, oh so very, bright. 

Inspiration is shown in the blind womans hands, 

As they widdle and widdle

Fore the children’s new stand. 

Inspiration is read from the books of quicksand,

That pull you in un-mindingly into their death-sticken land. 

Inspiration is painted with a cherry red blush, 

As the man sits naked on a pile of. . . stuff. 

Inspiration is seen from the mices dark hole, 

To the room where the orange man blows his horn. 

As you may see, 

My inspiration is clear. 

It’s root is from there, 

Where my soul is so near.