The Urge

The urge,
the need…
is always there,
calling like a lover spurned.

Fragments flicker to life
then fade away,
before they can prosper,
like the spark of a matchstick
too humid to light.

Phrases
fold unto themselves
collapsing
from the weight
of expectation.

Then the moment passes,
the muse…
is gone,
like the foggy memories
of a dream
lost in the space and time
between slumber
and consciousness.

Still the urge,
the need…
is always there,
calling like a lover spurned.