Inspiration

An observation on a writer's inspiration

With disguise he greets you on darkened cobbled streets,

Narrow as a pregnant cow, wide enough to fill hearts with

Lust and learning. He seduces on young sandy beaches,

There is a brief embrace before leaving, the white pages 

His only legacy.

He’s more flirtatious when it’s stormy. Black clouds hovering 

Overly hot and bothering and he’s never blundering but climbing

off the train to greet with steady feet.

Tall. Slender. Wittingly sticking throughout for the awe of the 

Next lost lover that he doesn’t want to begone, even though 

There’s often the drone of smatterings in bars and in cars and 

Under blankets of stars, that he’ll forget you, empty, suffering.

Frustrated, flustered. Loss is the spoken untruth by those who 

Speak in tongues of spreading absent souls. However,

Those who are intimately involved; crumpled weak with an

Aching. Yearning.

Friends of his, awake in a circle of kindred thought, know,

That he is one of life’s constants, and it is in fact we

Who disappear.