It’s not that there isn’t anything that needs to be said,
It is more so that the art to writing, is the act of writing.
Of all the things there are to study,
Of all the things there ever could be,
What is there but this candle light?
A night as warm as the heart’s delight?
How is it that it could be, should be,
Anything other that what it would be?
Of anything it could be, brought to thee,
What would it be, really?
Send it back to me,
What it is that went through me.
Be kind enough to renew with me?
Review, deduce, reconstruct this thing?
What it is, it could be,
What it was, it should be,
Never again could this be happening,
Not like this, not just like this…
What it is inspires me,
It contrives and enlivens me.
To hide and confide,
I bow to thee.
What is it thee seeks in me?
What is it that it could be?
Who is it that is with me?
It’s all be said, done, and spun before…
The thread begins to twirl again,
Whirl me, please
Be peace with me.
Breathe, breathe, all of it yet.