Inspirations

Like the poet who wrote that he ran out of inspiration, of words. And he asked the Gods, would they, perhaps give it back to him, this thing that allowed him to talk to people. And be heard. The Gods had mercy. He's back, undiminished and forgetting his humbleness. I knew he would be twice okay. And that his cry was more a song of empty feelings. So, he won't miss me or my words, because I may have defied the Gods. So said the devil when he burned my paper and poured all my ink into the fire. 'You done' he said. Perhaps I am.