Restless

I have been this way before
(too many times before)
when everything I sought to say
seemed immature and juvenile,
wasteful of energies, which,
when used by other hands,
electrify the soul
sent searching for a meaning,
for a purpose or an explanation,
at least an answer to the question
that we all must ask, one day,
when truth descends
upon our consciousness
like dusk falling at the end
of long and lazy summer days,
when cicadas irritate the sun
until it sets into the silent night’s
still air,
apparently immovable,
fixed and weighing heavily
on the minds of restless sleepers
asking why?
.