Creative spirits never die,
their embers merely slumber
with every waning moon above,
only to reawaken
at the slightest sign of sparks:
a word hidden amongst other words;
a tired thought of spite;
or the musings over memories
returning out of place;
all tickling the spirit’s soul
like venom to a snake;
passions, the essence of fire
for any creative soul,
burns to fuel the flames
of all innate artistry;
spirits walk and roam,
runs towards the silent rooms
to find another’s burning desire
— waiting to reignite.