A Dry Poem

Seems like my Heart,
Soul and Spirit are dry of the Poetry they thirst for,
But,
They’re there.
Poems I’m demanded to excavate from ancient ruins of Faith I’ve been restoring with every stroke of my pen regardless of the amount of ink I choose to splatter on to,
The grave of my past and present demons.
Poems that will never see the light of day if,
They’re all set on fire as they lay on a burning flame sparked by the bitterness inside of me.
My garden?
Full of Weeds I must snip before my weary feet get tangled by every thorny,
Merciless vine of,
Death…