The well is run dry

The well is run dry
 

I used to wait around to be in love with you.

I watch the sky turn blue all the mornings,

Then go black again as light is fallen,

Write in the park and wait for inspiration.

I'd pen poems to nobody about nothing.

But leaves of the trees speak another language.

If you listen, they aren't telling you to be patient.

And the sea isn't saying the well is run dry.

An inner voice speaks softly, pay attention.

Something beneath is coming to the surface.

And when it comes it's your job not to miss it.