Heeding the Voice of Instinct
The window sill in prisms of light
reflects a half-opened treasure chest,
damp in sandalwood mold: in there
a mixture of unlived passion of my art
lays on ---dried paintbrush, unfinished
verses, torn ballet slippers, and sepia tickets
for unseen musicales; that behind the cataract
night’s hazy pale of night, I struggle
with denying the fragile voice of instinct
which urges these veins to fulfill
my own sense of brightness
as I dismiss the echo of this heart
pining for expression’s release…
yet I remain listless, needing to pour
a zeal from running empty.
12//14/2015
Where Echoes Hide Contest
For John Lawless
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