Under the cold shower
Thowers start raining on my head,
Tickling every nude brain corner
Like a naughty morning lover in bed.
They whisper, tickle and giggle
In my exposed ears,
Conniving with the flowing foam,
Wiggling, mingling and slipping through
The gaps between window breaths,
Flying in as witches on a broom.
Some of them scribble their spells
On the walls of the mind
Bringing dead magic back to life
While others simply freeload
Off their new abode
Promising a new insight.
These thowers are inspirations undercover
That arrive and depart of their own free will
Its only under the shower
That you may savor their flavors
For once you turn off the tap,
They slink back leaving behind a humdrum
To the secret place they came from.