Straining Oars

Have been having a really hard time trying to write something. Writer's block sucks. And when you're over it, you forget what it's like and think that you've never had it. Anyway, in the mean time, this is something I wrote a while back.

We, a quiet generation, wait for the signs of Father time’s affection.
Listening for resounding chords lost along tracks of windless waves
Rearranging cloud pieces if only for a moment’s worth of attention
And blow profiles in sand to reclaim stares surrendered to disheveled graves.

Listening for resounding chords lost along tracks of windless waves
I’ve seen this somewhere before, replaying tracks of bittersweet hope.
A descending vessel determined within unforgiving storms and rain,
Tearing numb white knuckles straining oars just to hear an unspoken note.

I’ve seen this scene somewhere, replaying tracks of bittersweet hope,
Awakened prematurely without anything to show from this equation.
Where we were young and drips of coffee in ceramic assured us our beliefs,
And without a moment’s notice watch faith turn fact from this indignant fiction.

Awakened prematurely without anything to show from this equation,
On the edge of our seats waiting to present this public display of perfection.
Waiting for permission to walk or run thinking greatness never questions,
We, a quiet generation, wait for the signs of Father time’s affection.