My days and nights are tossed.Lost is the meaning of time and the need to wear a watch.
The room has shrunk to the size of a desk. Time grows smaller still, and I get carried
away in the river that runs between the words.The shaded light - dusk or dawn? Do I want
to know; do I care?
My mind's in the swing of wordy things and their endless combinations; they feed me all I
need to grow. My thirst is quenched in waves of imagination, and I rest in the music of
friends, new and old. Eyes shut to the judgement of wasted moments; the metered march of
the passionless who perform but leave their lovers unfulfilled, craving the sincerity of
a selfless seduction.
I shelve the artificial progression of life, do what matters most, and lose myself in the
serious silliness that I know to be the heart of me. I shake loose the fractional anguish
at the loss of a wayward phrase, and I recognize the need to breathe in the color red
before the final period has closed the page.
Is it poem or essay? Ode or not? Is this expense of energy equal to another's perfect
day? It matters not. My soul has taken communion with the word and Rilke is pleased.