I've decided to write a novel because that's what Father John sings about
(my only reality is a vicarious one)
I shall sing the words through a pine tree, caterwauling
(social media passes for inspiration in my wilted mind)
But Kerouac's stream of conscious prose appeals too
(plans often deteriorate so freewheeling seems apt)
My biggest problem though, is my inherent inability to write anything of substance
(and my poetry leaves little to desire)
Cognitive dissonance can be a brutal *****
(my warring mind never ceases to distract me)
I'm tired of forcing words from my brain
(i'm going to lay down and read)

- From the trees, from the trees
I hear the solemn breeze
(A soft whisper, loving, sage)
Enough to bring me to my knees
It's a precious thing to have
(In this lonely age) -