RETIRED WRITER

There is no more inspiration
left
for me.

All of my life has moved
away
from me.

I am too old.
I have too many memories.
There are no more links left to make.

No more aspirations
all the dreams I've had
have been met.

Now the only dream of mine
is to dream
again.

Now the only home of mine
is too find that place
where I was before.

Like the parched sailor who tastes fresh water
in drops
and then can taste no more

And the artist who loves
but once
and then can love no more.

Both live on
but hope not
and suffer in suffocating satisfaction