Pardon me friend,
I don't mean to barge in on your time,
But have you seen my muse?

No,
It's not one,
For I once had many,
But now I had none,
Leaving me here rambling like a mad man,
Of things that had come but are now gone.

I offer great advice when I can't see to follow my own,
My muse my muse,
Wherever did you go.

Perhaps you were in my viewpoint of the world and the people in it,
That has changed so often in the times that have come before,
Or mayhaps your in my faith in something higher,
With nothing in my mind but a downward spiral,
Into Oblivion where one can never be refound?

But alas,
Fear not for that,
Dearest reader,
For my muse is found again,
Always popping up in the weirdest places,
To always be found again

It's been too long,
Need to blow proverbial dust off my works,
Inspiration struck like lightning,
Like the sensation of hearing a song from your favorite band that you never heard before,
From when they were younger,
Their faces with so fewer lines.

Faster and faster,
For you never know when this new song is going to end,
Only that in the here and now lies you,
The you that is most present for all the major things,
Here for some of the victories but all of the defeats,
The tides are rising friend,
Do you need to be thrown a rope?

The solo is hitting now,
The song soon reaching it's conclusion,
But it's when that favorite band of yours is younger,
Full of **** and vinegar and ******* attitude,
Crescendo!

Slowing down,
Let it all echo out,
Gotta mellow the tune,
To reach a natural conclusion and peaceful end,
Leaving your enthralled ears graced with the fading of the wave's...

...

...

...

You hit replay.

Look at your pool of friends,
And tell me,
If you were to label your friends with a personality that fit them best,
Which one would you end up labeling "The Fool"?

Now I never said *****,
Do not misconstrue me,
Ma'am or Sir,
For my words are only said with the purest possible intention.

So this individual,
This "Fool",
Would you say they are content with life?
Not just happy,
But utterly content with their station in life?
Want for nothing,
These luck individuals be,
For without such individuals we as a species would have faded away into the final darkness.

The night is still,
A silent cold hangs crisply in the air,
A quilt of noiselessness encases the world,
Looking up upon the stars,
So dazzling in the pre-dawn air.

The moon hangs over the Eastern Horizon,
Just a sliver alit along it's bottom edge.

As the world slowly begins to stir,
Slowly cracking the sky and setting it aflame,
An all encompassing blaze that kisses upon my brow,
Warm and caring,
Loving and tender,
Like that of a mother to a newborn babe.

It is here that one can be at peace,
Where the current troubles slip away like steam from an exhaled breath in this crisp warm air.

Across the smoky air the wave's travel,
Ihor is singing again,
Rocking out on a ****** out tune.

My lungs are burning,
Trying to contain hot ash and air,
Starving for oxygen as the chemicals seep deep.

The factory behind the house still clanging from after-hours operations,
A rhythmic heartbeat of production coinciding with that of the sleeping earth,
A tempo unheard and unfelt,
But ever present,
For how is one there if not but by the grace of the other?

Stan Roger's is calling out to the start sky on this moonlit night,
His baritone cadence stretching through the pleasantly tempered air.

I take another smoke out,
Lighting it quickly and taking a drag,
Trying  to figure out where all the time went,
It's as though I've blinked and everything has changed.

It's been happening for a long time,
I know,
But then again,
That's how it always is,
Isn't it?
Taking note unconsciously,
But never taking notice,
For it's change is too unwelcome.

But for now all is quiet,
The owls hooting amongst themselves,
As a breeze gently passes by.

The air is cold,
Yet thick and choking,
As spectral fingers begin to stretch across the land,
Asserting dominance upon the hillsides,
The creeping fingers now more akin to a cavalry charge,
Bringing whatever it can into it's  mysterious embrace.

For this ethereal creature knows it's time is slipping away, like sand through a clenched fist,
And is eager to revel in every action it can.

Falling like a blanket over the countryside,
Dampening sounds,
And playing tricks on the ears.

All I can hear now is the crackling of tobacco and the roar of silence that is the mist,
My nose is cold,
But my hands are warm,
The smell of cigarettes and dew clings heavily to the air,
My own contribution to the beast hangs about,
No wind to whip it out of my sight,
My God is it quiet.