Motes of the Unsaid

Like dry sand running through your fingers,
faint susurrations of thought,
ephemeral and non cohesive,
falling in motes of the unsaid,
creating a beach at my feet.

Where is the torrent, the raging waters of inspiration?
Where is the jumble and collide caused by the tides of imagination?

I am marooned in the calm empty of a shallow pool
with not even pebbles to reflect a distant sun.
I bask in the warmth of the sun,
yet search for the zephyr of air,
that will launch my ship again.

©  ceenoa