Sleep's the only cure for this,
when the inspiration
sometimes flows. Then every thought
is versed, and I'm teaching courses in my
telling how I
where I learned it first - in reformatted copy-writing. I
stick it out and know when
it ends. I trudge
through weeks, it seems, weeds of words, till the
path clears, and I can run.
the repetition, gold with habit. Nihil ex nihilo.
I return to flow as often as light flies to night.
I banter with right,
then give up fight, because the
weave of words broods, dripping, before the pour.
I am clutching the gush of usage for lack of better.
to express with elements, the trivial,
revery, the vital yielding fluvius,
the beast, forever
woods of apperception. Too gentle, and there's a danger
of duty calling, inciting, iterum, so
I outwork all possibilities, let the
efflorescence, yellow, sacred, lest inspiration bolts,
I groom the list of helps, begin
once more and center. Dealt in waves, I dance with what
I have. The healing
canters by, I catch her course. I return to flow.
Three Word Wednesday