When the Road Looks Foggy, and He Sticks His Hands In His Pockets.

“You can’t wait for inspiration, you have to go after it with a club.” — Jack London




If your brain feels like its being pulled in two,
telling you to walk but running you through,
take a couple minutes to unglue,
do something loud to uncloud your view,
because when you get stuck, there's no telling what monsters reside
in the outside world, the one that's making you hide,
and if you get pulled out of that boxing ring,
and you just sit by while he kicks and screams,
then you might as well sleep, and opt out for a dream.

The hero walks in.

"I thought that we had a goal to see; I came to bring some soul to keep us going, keep us moving, keep us strong to fight the sleep-bringer."
And you stare, not knowing how to answer his call. You yawn, and back out since your mind feels dull. You think, and you think, and you think all the time;
but what about thoughts that just start to rhyme? That start to motor themselves? That sing out even if you don't try to conjour them up with your laborious spell?

The hero waits for an answer.

"You- you who yawns like you have already won; I call on you to wake up, for we need your aide. At one time, you were holy and asked not for a coin for your doings. Now, bearded though you are, you require payment for your energy. How sad this is! That you require admission! Your brilliance, your motion! Please, for the sake of our kin, wake up!"
You blink and nod, listening close,
but you don't say a word to your benevolent host,
as others sing loud with freedom in throat,
you listen and contemplate the verses they wrote.

The hero stands up.

"Then so be it!" he says, "Your past is a lie!"
And he stands up in his youth, screams out to the sky,
yells out his frusteration with blood in his eyes.
His lacking in years is made up for by might,
as he screams entrance to History, and thousands standby,
his words bringing forward ideas since hushed,
causing others to follow his magnificent rush.
Yet his body is torn, and his thinking is tired, his power depleted, his sources expired.

The hero is carried away.

Cuffed and muffled, he is carried into the ward, and contained like a rodent in heat. His eyes shift to the one sitting quiet, whose strength is gone but whose shield is aglow, he who fell asleep and let passion fall caged.