The joy of creation,
can only be known,
against a backdrop of sedation.
The pains of the artist,
with too much to say,
are dulled through the mind’s masturbation.
* * *
The seasons turn swiftly,
seeds planted… some grow,
while others rot trapped in hard clay.
The life lived tomorrow,
so seductive and bright,
forever outrunning today.
* * *
Serpant selves shedding skins,
twice born in a day,
thin shells and old eyes never missed.
Once catching a glimpse,
of a muse waxing high,
pulling with it the tides of our bliss.
~r