Inside curtain of wind,
senses rise and focused mind
begins to hear.
Stream of song reverberates,
as music of breath balances heartbeat.
As vibrant twinkling stars lead thoughts
into pastures of lighted clouds.

Sleep eludes.
while words tumbled off finger tips,
and road to poem starts.
Letters circulate,
as if inside air particles of breath to form
jargon gatherings untouched by human mind.

“Who speaks in yonder hall
of prism faceted mind?”
I ask at 3AM
when it's sleep time for most
but not me.

Is it Shakespeare's shadowed form
as guide perched in realms unseen
who echoes in mind a
“to write or not to write,
that be the question.”

Or could it be Hemingway
who invites self into thoughts
sprinkling seedlings of a vision
once painted on a rainy night.

Perhaps it’s Poe a grand puppeteer of words,
who once lived.
A talented soul in matrex of universe
who offers mind transfusion
to tweak my prose
with a Ravens song.   
 
Maybe its an alien who stops for a while
in a dimension nearby
to reveal a message for those
craving wisdom to fall into eyes like
to move as pioneer
in celebration
of ones sacred self.

Alas time passes
as poem comes to an end
and moon slowly ascends
biding farewell

Undercurrents of sound
shift and writer guides ceases to feed
without leaving his calling card
of a name.

And I bid thee fine reader good day
as my cavorting fingers rest
making way to return to pastures of sleep.

Till we meet again
parting is such sweet sorrow.