We trash countless blind alleys while I attempt to nudge this snorting black nightmare closer to something solid and dependable like a wall. And the walls disappear leaking us into further unforgotten realms in a maze of blindness, déjà-vu, multiplying, each fresh nightmare waiting in the wings like the wild goose eager and ready to take its turn leading the horde; eager like the wolf, to close in with the pack.
And countless horses crowd every nook and cranny of now with indestructible past; in a mindless trample of panic, the stampede opens its maw to consume me.
Without Con.text I hover uncertain of my direction. I feel like my bones have been picked clean and a howling gale whistles through me; it snatches everything and yet still leaves me here. Where to now? I'm working and wishing that my inspiration will take flight.
I miss my muse, I miss my heart.
Today there is nothing to say.
Slow moving marks on a blank page
say nothing yet, and nothing yet
I have been playing in vain with
big, bold charcoal and flirting with
inconsequential words: yearning.
Hiding what might be the real me
to avoid contention; bland is
the new black. I feel too broken
to make waves, but who is it I
am trying to mend with tiny
points of black ink on blank paper?
Dots that take days, weeks to reveal
faces, reveal secrets conceal
more; yet fail to clothe my gipsy
bones. Flight, the flame that consumes
me, playing with fire and finding
my way home from mistakes, without
obliterating love. Is this
flying? In these bare, heartless bones
I am yearning, aching to fly.