A Poet In The Making

A diaphanous mist hangs over Blurring thoughts and fancy Or is it that my Muses Have gone into lazy slumber? Whatever thoughts I have They come fragmented and scrambled In no way I can piece them into a string. On trying to nest them together, They wheel away like pigeons! When I struggle for utterance Like a child, I lisp at the very first word Sometimes thoughts strike me Like pellets of rain against the window pane But fail to broil them In the crucibles of my imagination I am a miner searching for a nugget of gold In tons of drilled out dark mineral ore In the dead of night, in frightening stillness I am awake, with pen in my hand And a heavy weight pulling me down Caught in a creative maelstrom I whirl and whirl Hope the ink will soon spill over Scrawling coherent lines and letters Like an emboldened farmer, I sow the seeds of my thoughts Into a land barren, Not fecund enough And not watered with imagination! Who can say some of them won't strike root Even in the cleft of a rock And struggle bravely into sunshine Spreading over their sterile birth place With beauties any eye would love to behold! I wait for that moment.....! Yes, I am a poet in the making...