Tuesday, September 18, 2012

For What It's Worth.

I am standing at the edge of dreams.
Though they are silent, it seems.
This, in despite of my pleading.

I implore; they are unheeding.
What's more, they are
aggressive.

Oppressive, they are,
for their lips are sealed.
Leaving me nothing to wield
against the infinite space of
seeking.

No voices; no noise.
And no guidance.

So I will wait with poise. 
Soon one will speak
and recognize that
I am standing at the edge of dreams.

What I do.

It is late and things are still.
Though I am awake, turning.
Inside there is something burning.
It calls for me; it has its own will.

It must be abated
and I will be elated.

For it is the urge to write.

And write I shall.
I rise and enter the quiet. 

I start a blank page --
the urge at the level of rage --
and I begin to satiate it.

I put on music, soft,
reflective and aloft
I hear the Muse.
It tell me to not confuse
a distraction for the
idea.

I listen. Good insight.
I let the words pour.
"More, more!"
I say, to no one in
particular.

The urge slows.
I am one with the piece.
And, gradually, my
soul leaps out and becomes
one with the forever. 

It is late. I am done.
All things are still.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

Whimpering.

The streets are cracked
and the skies are grey
and the people, aloof
and distant and
unknowing, sit at
home and sip
their tea while the
tall, looming trees
sway like partners
who dance in the
midst of darkness.

The wind picks up
and blows terrible,
shrieking gusts.

The smiling sun has
sunk away.

The night is upon us. 

All around, things whimper.
All around, they whimper.