This ride has stopped its turning

This ride has stopped its turning,
I've pushed it until it was spent.
There's no more gas for burning,

though my dear mind's still churning,
I'm not even making a dent.
This ride has stopped its turning,

and though my hand's still yearning
to write, my old brain it is rent,
there's no more gas for burning.

This writer has hardly been earning
his wages, the muse it has lent,
this ride has stopped its turning.

I've wisdom yet I am still learning,
my will to the muse must be bent.
There's no more gas for burning,

yet intellect must be discerning,
not writing by mere accident.
This ride has stopped its turning,
there's no more gas for burning.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos