Aching to create, longing to build, my head throbs and my bones quake.
Thirsting and hungering for a new kind of life. To draw the death up from these tired bones and resurrection from deeper still.
But I’m tired, yes so tired. My eyelids droop, and my breathing slows.
So I wrote this poem, appeased the ache, and now I’m off to sleep. Maybe morning will wake the creator and I’ll find myself anew.