No shafts of moonlight to hem me in.
I soar with angels, buffeted by their wings
As the air around me sizzles and pops with electricity.
The urge to create anything at all stokes the cinders—sparks fly in all directions.
My bed beckons me in this wee hour of the morning,
But my mind races forward, chasing one elusive thought after another.
Hour upon hour I remain vigilant at the slightest vague supposition.
Any inkling will do as my mind does cartwheels in this grand space of time.
How the quiet is suppressed by the clamor of thoughts in my head.
Too much noise encircles the ego in this still burnt cork of night.
They come at me like bat’s wings in frightful flight,
A blur that cannot be captured and imprisoned to evoke expression of creation.
The expectation of creation grows silent amid the dissonance that abounds,
Despite the impulse—the drive—to construct.
My mind desperately reaches out to catch even one of these thoughts that race.
There is this tremendous thrust of despair.
What was once a dizzying envelope of energy
Has been usurped by an utter drain of force.
Stands at the head of the line with anticipation.
It’s time to crawl back into the void, craftily disappearing at will,
Knowing that the night has finally closed in and shut out all of the dreams that once filled the sky.©2007