My hand rests here upon this blank form
the pen nuzzled, cozy and warm between index and thumb
and I but await, the form that it should bear
The little para-sail of thought that swiftly entails
By draft of conscious reason the play, the lines
That shall stem and grow upon this paper.

Sometimes, I am not here at all
It's like a vagrant character takes hold this form
and drifts the banks of faded memories to etch but theirs to mine
Till ink flows like a non stopping spicket, pouring out
Soon digested to the whole phenomena I lay blank
Like pagess upon which the words desire to embrace.

Little child like figures wave between the interplay
This game of margins and thought, marbles clutter
where the revenue of the flow but draws
Upon these hopscotch and I caught the weasels
momentum springs but it's eternal sight
to peer over and across the facade of time
And jots a line or two of verse.

Here, Aye here is the bereavement of the writer
who's image fades to the mighty word
and pounds ever so deeply the elemental cries
That reason holds no power here.
I chuckle at the notion that ever befalls
some faded harmony of a promised bliss
that vanishes amidst the shadows of night
To leave but it's haunting cry.

There I peer down the lane of the centuries
Those famous writers and scribes of literature's ghosts
That forever within our minds haunt us to the passion of a word
And leave us but whole and naked to the deliverance of truth.
I wonder how their pens but scribbled
How they filled their own inconsistencies and ravished the thought.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph