The Old Scribe
this waning moon upon the midnight sky
offers as much light as this dimmed desk lamp's glow
on these walls surrounding me in the shadows of night
i lie in the darkness of summer's reign as crickets stridulate
unable to catch even a moments sleep through closed eyes
this tattered soul of mine remains frayed on the edges of mind
where gathered thoughts tangle like worn out threads
sewn together from grandma's frail hands so long ago
i hear the whispers of a zephyr calling to me
as if the serenade of a muse lost somewhere within
is now beckoning me to grab a pen and write
yet my feet refuse to pivot and hit the floor
heavy from the weight that i now bear
i lie here, motionless, my mind draws the same blankness
as the piles of papers stuffed in the drawer
the sheets now crumpled like failed attempts of poems
tightly wrap me in another sleepless night
as the hands of time relentlessly tap away on the clock
the birds begin to sing in song as the sun breaks the plane
yet somehow my mind is still lost within the stygian of thoughts
June 30th 2020
Copyright © Sandra Adams | Year Posted 2020
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