In the stillness of the night, and in the wee hours of the mourn, when sleep is a
d~~~ a ~~~ r ~~~ t ~~~i ~~~~ n~~~ g
butterfly we cannot catch, thoughts intrude.
Niggling urges overwhelm, and so we write, in sleep dusted scribbles on blank steno pads, or with gravel voiced utterings on a real to reel cassette.
Expressing dreams not realized in the depths of rapid eye movements, over serta clouds, or during the sonambulance of ones daily trudges, to and fro across their dreary worlds.
This then is a w-rite of passage poets endure.
Also in the silent pauses between kisses one feels the composition of four silky horizontal lines blended in perfect harmony many times over melded in passions that leave breathless those who tongue it's eternal praises.
In the blissful afterglow, of any two earthly bodies, colliding together, and then hanging
in that silky, milky way, at the conclusion of thier heavenly orbit over, under, and around each curve,.
One can always find words, that spasm in erractic squiggles on perfumed sheets, to express loves consumption most delightful.
These too are
writes of passage poets crave.
But when our muse is recluse, leaving our words confused then our art feels abused we are seldom amused, for we live to defuse daily suffering, and blues, capturing passionate views when life hands us the clues, in its bright colored hues.
But we're not always used when inspiration's refused, still we won't be excused we use blank books as pews, praying daily for news.
That the mental blocks placed in our most sacred space, have been toppled from gracing our dreams and defacing the cathedral of our soul, where we once had control.
This is truly the hardest of any writes of passage, a poets journey encounters, but each must trod on through a valley of patience near a lake of tears shed.
Taking marginal steps keeping false hopes deleted many times spent backspacing erasing the lost trails and trials that beset them on discouragement's way.