Tired Mind

The writer's fear is a nighttime thing
unopposed by daytime occupation
The tired mind, completely undefended
Languishing, adrift in useless dread
Thought becomes a witless blinking

Sounds amplified, every slightest move
a scratching shriek against the pillow
Conviction's color fades to black and white
projected against the wall in patterns
Mystical, beyond the scope of reason

What if inspiration never comes again
The thing that keeps me working and alive
gone south in flocks, like ducks or geese
Migrants in flight, pursue that deepest fear
The coming winter snows of barren thought

One day there may be no returning flights
No beating wings to celebrate the spring
A winter never ending and no words to write
The flocks all hatch in other warmer ponds
and rear their young alone, away from me

The writer's fear is not a morning thing, it fades
Dissipated, lost before the early signs of dawn
Sun that warms these frozen lakes, rises still
and welcomes back the mating flights again
Another season to hunt the ducks of words