I see a place where all dreams go,
To die, an unnatural death
Stifled at creation by fear of failure,
It is here that all my passions lie.
It has been a hundred
And seventy nine days that I have written a pome,
And it’s been about the same
That I haven’t visited my writing dome.
And here I seek hymns
From the oracle of broken hopes.
I trawl these wastelands, collecting ideas,
Memories, figments of dreams unshaped,
And I see a storm brewing yonder
That threatens to rip apart every beauty,
That one sees as far as the eye can see.