The Poet

My mind is stagnant,

everything is banal and trite.

I still look yet see nothing.

My sun lit day is night.

There is but one sound,

a monotone mental hum,

my self just ticking over,

the daemon Apathy has come.

Then a single dew drop

briefly lingers in my sight,

I again see, eyes devouring all,

my darkness now golden light.

The door is open.

Released are thoughts and dreams,

in a slow turbid swirl,

full of images, words and themes.

To the surface they rise.

There to remain stealing time,

threatening madness,

until tamed by prose and rhyme,

and the door is closed again.


8 thoughts on “THE POET

      1. Again I agree, you can be at a halfway house situation where you actively drive your thoughts to break through. I came to terms with my demons a long while ago so always feel happiest reaching deep behind the door. Sweet Jesus I’d best stop there I’m getting all ‘Jim Morrison’ !

        Liked by 1 person

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