Bewildering As The Stars

So what if I wrote stories

when humanity

slumbered,

and I was so tired

that agonized eyes ached for rest?

But I didn’t because in the

diligent hours

of umbrage,

I found a kind of quiet

necessary to revive the passion

of something that was entirely

mine.

And it was the only thing

keeping despondency away.

Fire and ardor

were birthed

from a blank page

because I could turn those eerie,

dead space, hours

into art,

a kind that keeps dreamers company

when sleep

evades because their chaos decided

to unwind

when the constellations

were recounting stories about everything

that was and wasn’t.

Look at us:

The writer and the muse,

wrapped in our cocoons,

peering through cracks

in favored tapestries

at the scribbles that bleed through.

And somehow,

these visions feel more wholesome

than the ones

we glimpse when agonized eyes

finally claim their debt.

What then,

would I write

about the time that feels stolen,

secret?

Because sometimes,

the sky is quiet.

Somehow,

my breath is calm.

Somewhere,

I have finally unburied

a passion to unwind the chaos.

It flows now

into something more miraculous

than imagination

and as bewildering as

the stars.

***

Hello, wanderer,

Does inspiration sneak up on you at the most unexpected times? Sometimes, I find it frustrating. Others, enchanting.

xoxo, for now,

-your friend, dreaming