Poet of fit and start?

Streak of creativity strikes,

A rare muse crosses my path,

Yet fail to ignite that fire,

The rusted pen hardly writes,

Scarce words the hardly express,

Mind conjures faded images,

That holds not long,

River of thought runs through the desert,

The drought is long,

Could the famine of ideas end?

Will the barren mind bear the frit?

Scorched and parched the heart remains,

Thirsting for the downpour,

Denied the nectar that configures,

Sweetness, scent that bees seek,

The thrust that impregnates,

Plants the germ,

That when grows fulfills the life. 

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On Loneliness

No spark of light shown,

No feet to crack the twig,

No breath to stir the wind,

The silence reigns.

For years in the fortress of loneliness,

Confound to an un-ending slumber,

Glass walled from the outer world,

The solitude prevails.

What force could bring me out?

What desire be lit?

What noise will stir the heart?

For untouched it remains.