The Front That Welcomes Testo

I crave for even the faintest touch of inspiration.
Tho, it's rivers have seemingly dried.
The past few weeks have gone by like nameless citizens,
in a waiting line.

Scattered grey clouds have altered my plan.
I must dig deep.
An amalgam of taunting voices have wittingly took the lime light away.

Words and actions have somehow lost some of their sweetness. As I search for some sign,
and collect the shattered pieces,
I regain my thirst for optimism.

Deaf will be these ears; to your serenades.
Blind will be these eyes; to your charades.
And cold will be the front, that welcomes you