Monday, 16 April 2012

Poem 11

There’s a middle of the night mode
When I’m tired and awake
When I can’t stop going and
I just can’t wait
to sink
my head
 into pillows
and soft dreamlike blankets
and it doesn’t happen
for hours
into minutes
into seconds
prose becomes poetry, (my muse hasn’t the faintest idea what scarlet looks like)
poetry that has lost its shape, but the sounds I can hear
and the tap of the keys is a drumline
a beat
a rhythm of its own
and I am ready to write
and I’m ready to sleep
there’s a line twixt the two that I
cannot see
cannot know
cannot plumb
all I know is words
on paper

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