Potential
In that time the ancients
called the death mist,
others the black sun,
he knows it as
the ‘tween times,
before new day has begun.
He mostly sleeps well,
though frequently turning in place,
recalling the presence of Spirit,
knowing he lives in grace.
Still, ideas spring unbidden,
perhaps prompted by moonlight,
deep meditation not required.
Great rhymes are found, written down,
or lost, no matter how inspired.
It’s the night shift,
poems bathed in shadow,
starlight used to burn
the words in stanzas,
each spinning on its axis,
a muse-ical nocturne.
Poems have always come at night,
though nicely drawn,
they are words in flight,
too often lost, here then gone,
he’s unwilling to rise, bring the light,
as perfect thoughts vanish before the dawn.
No comments:
Post a Comment