PRISONER OF TIME 1 © 2007

I sleep the hunger of my soul's insatiable words,

At night, I wake sweating, with the fever of harvests,

I am delirious! This yearning for cultivation,

That consumes me, burns, in intense and vivid fire.

Tears lack the emotion,

To water the flame that burns without reason,

And refresh the mind, in search of relief,

But the weeping is dry, like a barren and empty field.

Each verse is a scream, an attempt to escape,

But the fever of cultivation keeps me trapped,

The arid land of my mind cries out for rain,

But the harvest is scarce, and the effort proves in vain.

I sleep the hunger, but it always returns,

Insatiable, ravenous, in search of expression,

And while the fever of words torments me,

I seek in the emptiness of night, the peace that eludes me.

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