A thirsty muse

I have drained the well of emotions, from it I draw only dust

Not a bucket full of devotions or a drop of lust

Dry runs the stream of thought, evaporated the spring of fear

Above ground my fruits rot, dried up the last tear

Want feeds starvation from its empty pocket

The mind's wheels of creation lack their chain and sprocket

All about seas to drink but all of it salted

Dried up is all the ink poetry has halted