With whom do I write, my muse,
my deep inner plight resounding,
or am I connected to a cosmic stream,
where all knowledge and insight burgeons
like the pristine summer clouds
that so take my imagination?
Am I indeed alone, sitting and tapping away,
as my heart gently decays and time swallows hard,
the older I get the less scope to vet,
as minds wonder, seeking beauty unknown,
and prone I am still to love’s cry,
the yearning never quells?
I feel the flow, the soft undulations
and thought manifests so beguilingly
to still find my ardor,
never ending, this need to write,
to unclothe a soul pleading naked,
in lights harsh scrutiny, despite the vulnerability.
How placid my intention,
ego bedded and quietly dreaming,
scheming for a more prominent place,
but what use I ponder, for that,
never brought me one iota of bliss,
just the kiss of death, the contentions of human life.
So quietly poised I sit, fingers equipped
to stroke this pad of keys,
find truth amid the fallen leaves of autumn,
and when spring arise no compromise of growth,
a wild and beauteous vote of thanks
to mother’s ever caring soul.
And as skies attest to eternal wishes,
mine thrives among the dishes not yet washed,
as my mind never leaves the page,
and chained I am to the sage of truth’s resound,
echoing what I know and have bound my views,
as life ensues its constant beat.
A poet I am, no denying,
and my crying state too broken to mediate
the day to day, the moment to moment bridges
I must build to accommodate my resolutions of past,
as I write my heart upon pages clean,
embedded with a soul of dream’s malaise.
Tony DeLorger © 2018