being a writer is fun
MUSH
~
No silence like that of an empty idea,
The self staring at blank nothing.
Wondering what wandering ideas will catch,
catch alight into the flame of passion.
Or am I moth bid for destruction, by the hands of scorching embers.
Perhaps even being pulled along by a whirlwind of daydream light,
Wings aflutter happily on the breeze of unrealized potential.
Fleeting incoherent, the wind leads only to disparate ash.
A dissolved husk that wants, and wants, and wants
To share
To love
To breath
Yet limbs shake, signals become lost in a maze.
The trapped ashes, the fleeting happy breeze, I can't paint with this.
The beacons don't connect
Brief flashes of light between minutes of TV static.
Where is my pyre,
I want to create.
Yet there is dissonance between action and body,
means here I sit in blank abyss.
