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Description
On The Rocks

Idle hands defer their grief
In alcohol and tattered sheaf.
So less than thought our conscience lies,
On ink-stained pages where thought dies.

The waters lap at desperate shores
That clutch them vainly for their stores
Of consciousness and intellect,
But drown alone like rotting wrecks.

The gull's a gaff that lifts its wing
To mock the earth-bound ones who sing
Of god and other lofty things
That dream of love and wedding rings.

This fleshy construct called a hand
Can lift and hold a pen again,
But lacking thought behind its flow
Will serve to stifle, and to slow.

So seeking inspiration deep,
And more than empty bottles reap,
The writer turns to industry
To fill the voids of artistry.

His focused task before him set,
It's all too easy to forget
He ever knew the gift of love
Or any power from above.

Yet ever mindful of a sort
Of emptiness, he will consort
Occasionally with pen and pride,
Remember how his talent died.

Out of the corner of his eye,
He watches as a boat speeds by.
The people on it not the type
To speak to him or offer gripe.

The waves are little more than that,
Passing by then falling flat,
And in the end, their only sound
Is of them breaking on the ground.

Description
On The Rocks

Idle hands defer their grief
In alcohol and tattered sheaf.
So less than thought our conscience lies,
On ink-stained pages where thought dies.

The waters lap at desperate shores
That clutch them vainly for their stores
Of consciousness and intellect,
But drown alone like rotting wrecks.

The gull's a gaff that lifts its wing
To mock the earth-bound ones who sing
Of god and other lofty things
That dream of love and wedding rings.

This fleshy construct called a hand
Can lift and hold a pen again,
But lacking thought behind its flow
Will serve to stifle, and to slow.

So seeking inspiration deep,
And more than empty bottles reap,
The writer turns to industry
To fill the voids of artistry.

His focused task before him set,
It's all too easy to forget
He ever knew the gift of love
Or any power from above.

Yet ever mindful of a sort
Of emptiness, he will consort
Occasionally with pen and pride,
Remember how his talent died.

Out of the corner of his eye,
He watches as a boat speeds by.
The people on it not the type
To speak to him or offer gripe.

The waves are little more than that,
Passing by then falling flat,
And in the end, their only sound
Is of them breaking on the ground.