Dry Well

The poets are all unemployed,
The dreamers are all awake
And the prophets spit before speaking
Because no one wants to hear their words
The muses, the sirens and the ghosts
Have wondered afar off
A man on a lake lifts his oars
With each stroke pulls the dory further away
Inspiration lets a finger trail in the water
Making a rippled wake
But doesn’t look back
Content to move on
There are no more words to write
I watch them from the bank
They becoming smaller
Until finally disappearing in the distance
I have become an abandoned house
On the outskirts of town
And every time I venture
Into the basement of my memory
It is like stepping into the past
But I should not speak of those times
Instead I will let those memories sleep
Like the neighbor’s mean dog
I shall only know the creaking of my floors
The sound of rodents gnawing,
The whisper of thoughts not worth repeating
And the silence of my pen