Pyre Night

 

I can't write -- See,
it's a given there's struggle
-- for me
to put words to a feeling,
to linger where it's dusk,
my mind is a place of no surprises.

I can be tongue tied,

scrappy, frightened,
shut off, heavy,
the frame can make
for a writer without words
to comfortably soothe them
but, you know,
I am lucky enough
to be more of a stage,
or not a stage but a mirror,
or if not a mirror a muse,
reflecting what lives inside all of us,
what's innocent to its core.
I haven't always got the lines,
nor the chords, nor the energy,
certainly wouldn't use conjecture,
or be caught unravelling
in a mid-city scene
but sometimes I can be found
shining a light upon the wolf,
the tribe and the dancer,
barefoot red, a brave, wise youngling,
the harpist, the shadow walker
in a bar laced maroon,
and as for writing,
I'll deal with it
in the morning.