Someone Not Much Different Than Yourself

A candle sits patiently nearing its end, as wax drips quietly hardening again. A lone poet weary, sits at his desk, as shadows dance across the wall, images filling his head. He puts pen down to paper and the journey begins, where he is the puppeteer, and the story his wooden men. The night grows cooler as a light wind adjourns, where leaves relax, and peace overwhelms. The candle still flickers until at wick's end, and a poetic master writes what hasn't been said. The sheets lay flustered, unused for a while, a tea cup full, though long ago grown cold. A room of solitude away from big cities, within a hut, near a lake, deep within the forest. He looks at a clock, though not sure if correct, and remembers that nothing else, requires his time. So when the moment strikes, and creativity runs wild, all that need be done, is forget all else, and do what comes natural. Not the fading light of a flame, nor impending exaustion matter, when one loses oneself within the bowels of their mind. The sun begins to peep over, and spread across the lake, as morning begins, as dew shimmers again. Thin-clad birch trees swayed in the wind, as smoke-like wisps of mist began to rise. The poet finishes and soon another to write, yet he will save that until the next mystic night. Written March 18th, 2002 © on Mar 17 2002 04:04 PM PST   0 • 10