Silky smoke floats from a Marlboro Edge,
stinging weary eyes burned out from
pixelated computer screens.
Stacked due dates overwhelm the poet
searching for the right words.
Quiet sleep language mumbles from her throat,
knocking me off my rolling chair
. She says, in delirium, a bird flies between us,
but nothing could ever come between us.
Why do I wish for sleep when slumber will condemn me?
Why do I resent her paraphrased yet elegant dreams?
Do I have a rendezvous with failure,
or is her bird a reminder to soar?
Capital J’s dominate the page, while numbers batter my brain like swords on shields. Dates. My love sings a tune for the flight as I gather my wings and jump; no one knows how we sidestep ravines or how we laugh demons into the underworld. These fingers don’t flap, rather, they tap keys and grip pencils, scribbling all the wrong words.
Muses often inspire by example and conceal reasonable doubt. I am fickle and jaded for my muse is my rambling mind, cursing me with fatigue and perching me on the highest tower, expecting a leap into black holes and untested Waters, haunted by historical penmen.