An artist's worry

It feels like there is wind
on the inside, storming away with ideas

that's a start, some other time
it is a ghost burrowing without a white sheet for head

or a faint image, half understood,
mostly blurry, a scent, a half apparition

elements, of outer weather
desires broken by the edges of mirrors

sometimes, gentle breeze,
a sea wave that only carries pearly bellies

or an image of war torn lands,
wasted, wasting, to be wasted

conjugation of verbs,
dysfunctional letters and faces-

quiet arrives when least expected
this is the truth, looked for, not found;
artists are haunted by a worry that is unprecedented
unmatched, forever lingering in exchange for a rosebud.