Oft in the secluded quarters of the
unshared
intellect, lie a poets
unpaid debts
of deeper thoughts
hardly written,
therefore surely unread.


His notes are past due,
but they may subdue
the sublime in kind,
(upon the turning of every runic stone in thy head.)


But in those moments of
creative famine
do direful phantoms
make a struggling poets thoughts
their ruinous home,
'til
something
ultimately
will
loan
a response
-thru which we bards are touched to the heart,
the nucleus,
the core.


'Tis the acumen of the unchained
Mind
where lies
the tranquil pleasure
of discovery,
which can be found alone,
here beneath the tree
which we
lovingly
call the laughing sycamore.


Suffice it to say,
we must have that need to write
fulfilled,
or feel blank
and hollow, lying quiet,
still,
there where
our inspiration also lay,
dearly killed,
by another sullen day,
whilst surrounded by the
many offensive forms;

and every essential structure
of our being, being forced
to shut out
the ghastly tidal wave
that has ever poured o'er our
personified dream.


It is a dreariness
which foreshadows
the greatest theme,
that mustn't be
ignored.


Therefore e'er will I seek
the nascent flame of ideas,
searching solely to feel
inspired, bright, and clear;
and here display
my regards
with barely
a downcast
awe

-'til the portrayal of metaphysical line
reveals itself in it's own time...
each
to
each,
   one and all.