My head appears empty;
there is the noise of cicadas
ringing in my airs,
but there again there always is
and the mind is tired wondering off
to tomorrows work,
I stare at the screen hoping
that some great universe will open up
into a huge welling up of words,
with great sound and rhythm;
I smile its late, and I’m happy,
its work tomorrow and I must take
my tired buzzing head off to sleep.
the title is an old blues song, covered rather well be the cream, all those years ago.