I lack inspiration and perspective at the moment and need a few thousand volts to give me a kick start my curiosity.

Sitting here I thought I would write, as often I do when I am scratching for things to write, about writer's block.

Bone

Stripped like corn from the sheaf
hard white bark stares back like stone.

Flesh has fallen
dried to devour itself on the barren ground

An eye scrapes without success
watches the last bone clamped between the eagles beak

to be carried beyond the hand.