I look into the abyss. Slow down the spiral, stare deep into darkness that shines, envelopes, embraces, caresses. I'm searching for a story. Hoping I'll see a ghost. Wanting to follow the seldom trod path that would take me to imagination. I want to see movement, progression, something I can remember. Something I can sing about, something I can write down, something that makes sense.
I'm tired. I'm so tired of trying to twist and fold the moment. I'm sick of being so goddamned impressed. So sure that I could do no more, that there could be no more to do.
I thought myself a sage. I convinced myself that I was a poet. Yet my deepest fear was that someone would understand my poetry.
Still, even now the snow whirls a static blizzard 'neath the glass. What I wouldn't give to infuse form and color, solidity, to mold the void into living dream.
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