Yes it’s late again
and my muse is paying me
a visit. She snickers

as she follows me
in from a long drive. Whispers
in my ear softly,

but not with words. The
thoughts that trickle down to my
hand are written with

a favorite pen,
black ink that leaves no room for
blank space. Her name is

Wake. She blinds me with
her light and cools me with her
waves of what seems like

never-ending thoughts. As
tired as I may be, my hand
cannot stop and continues

to fight the writing.
Rivers of words flow gently
but leave loud questions

behind. Will I be
heard? With one more stroke they cry
black tears that worry

one more question in
sight; will I be understood?   
Wake tires me with her

whispers and calls me
to ponder on many things.
For instance, life is

slowly opening
the gates of happiness and
seemed, for a while, to

even more slowly
close the gates of sorrow. A
sorrow left behind.

There is someone who
warms my cold wounds and heals them
with his beautiful touch. He

is the catalyst
to my healing. He has  been
closing that gate of

sorrow. I have found
love and so my joyful time
is upon me. As

my words come to a
stop my pen comes to a pause.
Blink and suddenly

can’t escape the night.
Tired I am and sleeping
I must be. Off my

room will disappear
into the darkness and my
dreams will lead me through

the journey that is
ahead till a place called morning.
Time is healing, as

is Wake’s whispers that
are like a close friend’s warm touch.
I am healed stronger.