I miss my muse

Barrington curves before Palms and I always turn left,

It’s dark, so I always creep up those concrete

Stairs with ninja like stealth, closing the iron door

With just a click in place again, slowly dragging the door

Over the carpet into position; I am back again.

 

You are drifting ever closer to that end,

I’ve long agreed to pay your debt but I try ever

too hard to accept what that really means,

I see you

I see someone so bright with eyes so dull

and yet so blue,

 I see a smirk when your smile

could change a lifetime in a room;

 you greet me with long last now

and I wish to all the gods in Heaven

I’d had that before, oh that wicked wish,

that old evil- sing-the-blues-and-lose- anyway past

 

Yet, I’m sullen now

in a whole new way

 

There’s a dark brown haze

of a cloud following me and the memory

of you around, there’s a dark demonic navy

in my sleep that pushes up the stars, full and vibrant

empty gaseous lies that will not come down to Earth,

won’t grant me a damn gracious wish, such darkness

drowns the clouds and the precipitation comes out

in perspiration and fear on my pillow when I awake

because you are not there

 

I counted sheep,

I counted on you too

I thought you were the reason I was able

The reason, season and moment I could

calculate the state of the world on,

but everything is slipping madly

out of reach

 

I could go on a lifetime, or as long as you’d listen

I’m reminded again, I can’t find you

Thistle, forests, trees where did you go?

 

 

 

Reviews

[Naomi Montana Walsh]

You did find these these words and I thought they worked very well together filled with images and emotion..the forest of being lost.. taunting darkness..anyhow well done. I like it.

[Jibey]

Yes, it is so... so often we cannot seem to get what we want in the place we want, when we want it... Some nice images here...

[Emily B]

I try to be philosophical about it, but sometimes when the words are just right there and miserably out of reach . . . this is perfect by the way

[Ed Hart]

we just can't help being poets...and the f*****g world is always giving us something to poet about...