Inspiration.

I know not how inspiration springs, full grown from the breast of men
like tidal waves crashing upon the shore.
Not gently seeping through the floorboards of the mind
But bursting in,  the diva in command.

What hold does inspiration have, and how we poor souls utterly depend upon
the nonexistent mercy of
the goddess of inspiration.
Wizened and old, rescuing those upon the teeth of deadlines
from the horrible death from hence.