During the summer of two-thousand-and-thirteen
many a night I did spend writing poetry
until eventually sunrise would creep up behind me
and I would realize how long I had spent
deliberating on little more than a few lines,
Tweaking their meaning, trying to find
something, a thing in them. Writing,
I aspired to go beyond rhyme,
To reconcile the world with my wanting mind
That searching, in-itself, was sublime;
In the act of poiesis one becomes divine.

Those were some of the best nights of my life,
Always ending with the sounds of the dawn chorus
which would rankle with me as I'd try to drift off
into a content and thickly sleeping state, from which I'd awake
groggily, in the afternoon of the same day.
That summer was my life.