There is a poem living in my head,
Anfractuous and organic its movements,
Oscillating free on the tongue when said,
Trickling viscosity, then it cements.
I reach out and pluck plumes from the unknown,
Devouring the delectable verse,
Mutter, murmur, and release a new moan,
The silence that follows is my old curse.
I seek out concepts to take me forward,
Like the idea of life after death,
How such things play on the mind, as they should,
Taking in a deep and meaningful breath.
Now lay next to me and fall fast asleep,
And dream sweet dreams all night, so I don’t weep.