I wrote this on an airplane a few months ago. Thought I’d share it here.

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Ever has the horizon been,
Inspirations charming muse.
A blank canvas to be filled,
By ideas brought forth as a flood.

Why does it precipitate,
Such a torrent of free thought?
Chaotic as a gusting wind.
Such a grip, shall not refuse

Fast as the mind is consumed,
Does the flow ebb too soon.
Like water hissing on the beach,
The sad departure of this wave.

How colorless life becomes,
When inspirations grip subsides.
How gladly would you pay a price,
To return the chaos, so frightful.