What is the poet's desire?
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A Poet’s Desire
Morning breaks with shakes and shivers of dreams set in mind, waking from slumber as day begins; dawn chorus sings songs of sickles and scythes slicing silently through today’s crop of words, within their own absurdity. Desiring to see and hear, being near not far as I drive in my car from place to town and back around, absorbing sights and sounds, walking barefoot on the ground as turf of the earth eases through unconstricted toes, the eyes close to imagine an emerging scene; hill top rises then but now arose before me, to the crest, where the view held was once of you and I back-dropped with clouds painted on a cerulean sky. Glimpsing the past which we take for granted will last until the days our eyes open to find laid before, the now undefended door of cramping styles, a need to smile and suggest which way to turn on the step, once outside. Inspiration died but will be reborn from the ashes of a pyre, yes the desire to free flow, filling Freudian phantasy full to the brim an opinion of him some hold and boldly suggest his inspirational incapacity, such the flaccidity of the failing cultural activity who desire to skim read and breed without respect and care for anyone or anywhere than their own free will. Still who am I to desire or conspire to change anyone; anyway?
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