Dusk is dull and gray
but the poet
will not break
his addictive trance.

It is not a romantic dance
of swirling fools
twirling to
a concerto
we all knew,

but a dangerous stream
going full steam,
a watery dream
of the unseen
unconscious
activity,

pushing and pulling.
Till, he stumbles, drooling
like a mewling fool
not controlling
his roving mind
but being moved
with its rapid taps.

His words are marked
with a metronomic beat.
His face is flushed
with the rushing heat,
a side-effect
of his anxiously
overactive mind.

Pushing well beyond
his normal bedtime
he writes
like a recovering
word addict
who he has relapsed.