Words hurled
onto pages of pristine white,
not unlike chunks
foisted upon a receptacle of
cold gleaming porcelain
late at night,
sick with fever
and nauseous purgings
of what preys upon my brain.

A vomiting of ideas,
stream-spewed consciousness
raw and unfiltered…

Oh, wretch that I am!
How to heave a tidy
sanitized version
from the dregs of my mind
simply because
you say that I must?

So   often, who I am speaks to me.
So  often, who I want to become, becomes clear.
So often, the angry voices begin to still.
Soften, self, and embrace the possibilities.

Day dawned dreary
skies grey and void
my pack, heavy
my motivation, waning.

Press on, I must.
No other options
if you don’t count death,
or obsolescence.

Onward, my mantra
however disheartening.
My stomach filled
with meager portions
and sleep supplied
within stringent parameters.

Scarcely enough to sustain…

Struck down as I was
with the numbing hardship
of the onslaught,
I feared reward
was no longer viable
but that did not prevent
hope from creeping in,
from coloring the blackness with
pastels and birdsong,
luscious shades of creamy
dreamfulness,
choirs of joyful redemption,
teal trumpets and scarlet saxophones.

Truly, that is the only thing
that kept me going.

We set out on a path
of wavy, winding light.
Cobblestones deeply grooved,
made more prominent
with tricks of photography,
voila! the finished product.

Skylarks in distant meadows
feed their young
nesting on the ground,
easy prey for red-winged
messengers in the early light.

Street lamps lit by ocean spray
small boats, helpless, in the rocky cove.
Abandoned relics
mute and silent
aside from the cries
of ravens and rooks
on hurried wings.

The glory of the sun retreats,
beauty in its own right.
Night falls.

We are spent.
Rest, now.

Rest.