Has not the wind blown…

a breeze to feel,
the lightest of sensations
to the wrath of a tempest
and in your face…
this is what it is like to
have a muse,
a notion of something
tugging at you,
the pulling of thought
that would drain you if
it could… leaving your body
but a husk if not responded to.

This is the sad truth for a writer,
one inspired to a mighty truth or
mere passing fancy, and
can only be thought of if
the winds blow your way…
where change starts with the
faintest of beginnings, be it
mortal or eternal.