The Windmill
In my few days of solitude I have come to find that it is not much easier to think and to rhyme with the silent static of the windmill in my brain and the never-ending, eternal hours that make up the days of the weeks of the months of the years of a lifetime. The calm after the storm has proved to be deadly. The windmill won't move no more For there's no fresh, serene breeze no more And all the dirty, foggy thoughts have stopped cycling through instead condensing and concentrating until there's no clarity no more until there's no lucidity no more until there's no coherence no more and all the voices who were my friends have turned into deafening silent static once again.