Waiting for an Epitaph

Never have I been so inspired
the words flow freely
how the heavens rain down with a beauty
the freedom she has given me
singing loudly once more
unashamedly
dancing badly
in my front room,
whilst the cat watches
the black bird
circling,
whilst other writers
sit contorted
in front
of Remingtons,
the ribbons
ripped and brittle,
the hammers rusted
and asleep.
The writers
wait for a sparrow to fly down
and spark them into life,
whilst the ink dries on this page
I find a calmness
in this emptiness
so I stop waiting for an epitaph
and start to live