My inspiration comes in the nighttime. Like the tides, controlled by the moon inspiration ebbs and flows. But, the poet is also a victim of that very darkness that offers those thoughts and feelings, then gradually obscures them from view. I am left haunted by the ghosts of ideas left to torment me, love, certainty and infinity. My heart moves on but my hand is controlled by that force unknown, risking endless repetition of the same themes. I pray for the clarity of daylight. But daylight brings an assault of reality without love or certainty only infinity, the great unknown. My hand is held by that vice of confusion, unable to function, to explain love or certainty. The great unknown wins, devours all and, then, the night returns.