The songbirds have all surrendered
The riptides of spring have all ground
To a sorrowful hush

Now I must forage the mind
For truth-wielding words
Words, meant to stir
And awaken the weary

I must pry them out
From the cold dead night
As my ego, so eagerly demands

So they might be beloved
By the honest light of dawn
And sought out in the eras
That gleam and hustle out of reach

But the keys, are stuck in their slumber
Idle and dreaming
Of a myriad of plots

Of rambles, of ravings
Of verses
To be cherished with time