When time and will and inspiration align
Work becomes play,
But such a union rarely arises
And so work becomes fear,
Overwhelming and imperfect;
I am left waiting.
With idle hands and toxic adrenaline.
If, however, as I wait I fill the work
That has fallen out of time
Beyond my reach
With all the hopes of my inspiration,
Perhaps hope will beckon my will
And I will play in the sun once more.