Inspiration.

There's something about you,

of that much I'm sure.

But I'm not sure what it is you do,

or if it's the way you talk,

or the way you move.

I'm not sure, but that's part of the magic -

when a magician reveals their tricks,

well then the act becomes tragic.

So I'm not sure how you inspire me,

but I don't care,

as long as you promise you won't move too far from there.

Improv.

A lonely island, lost at sea,

and time and space and history,

but time moves on,

and so should I -

onto a land, with a bluer sky.

Hour Glass.

You saw your cards,

and you still played your hand.

Now you're waiting for the chips

to fall like hour-glass sand.

Shellshocked,

you froze.

There was nothing you could do.

So you sat and watched,

and carried the game through.

Every second was an hour,

and each hour, a day,

as down your face the beads of sweat

began to pave their way.

The final chance to leave,

sinks in like the claws of fear,

You're numb to all but the call

that the dealer now shouts clear.

They all saw your cards,

those that played their hands,

and you sat and watched as your chips

fell, like the hour-glass sands.

The Beach.

When Winter comes, the beach is mine,

cold, grey, but quiet and divine.

Then Spring signals the end of Winter,

calming winds that once blew bitter.

And with Summer comes the tide of noise,

of tourists, children and their toys.

But when Autumn shows it's tired eyes,

the noise fades, replaced by cold grey skies.