Emptiness and nostalgia

February finds me
Barren of creative endeavour.
The world sits
Upon a great precipice,

Ready,
Willing,
To slip
Into unrecoverable turmoil.

My thoughts reach
No further
Than my own property line.
Beyond it,
The noise of humanity
Feels impossible to carry.

The company of strangers
Offers no comfort.
Creativity offers no refuge.
Nothing I make
Quietens the mind.

For now,
I am without
Artistic purpose.

So I retreat.
Back toward childhood.
Nostalgia becomes
My chosen medicine.
Its familiar shapes
Fill a space
Nothing else can reach.

For now,
That is enough.
Until the world
Calls my hands
Back to work.