I could lie here for hours.
Just locked-in, alone, with my own private lake,
I soak in the warmth as I soak out the ache,
Massage my fingers through lathering cream,
And breathe in the salts with the tickle’ing steam.
And I lie.
Eyes closed I lie.
And let wash away all that pressure and bile.
Go on without me, at least for a while.
I always imagine a bath is the perfect place to find inspiration, but I think the brevity of this poem shows how little I do. I’m more likely to find forty winks, and nothing wrong with that. Anyway, any good lines I do compose will be forgotten by the time I’m dry.