At the tip of my tongue,

It’s a song I’ve sung

A melody that just rung,

In so many ways,

On solitary days,

And now I gaze

At the way it eludes

Oh shrewd!

Wicked muse!

I stand at the end of inspiration

Of wilting aspiration

Who am I if I don’t create?

If I don’t satiate

The hunger in my soul

I spring forth

‘Devour me whole,

O emptiness’,

Where would I land

if not at another beginning?