This writer's fears come mostly at night. |
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Tired MindThe writer’s fear is a nighttime thing,unopposed by daytime occupation The tired mind, completely undefended, languishing, adrift in useless dread Thought becomes a witless blinking Sounds amplified, every slightest move a scratching shriek against the pillow Conviction’s color fades to black and white, projected against the wall in patterns Mystical, beyond the scope of reason What if inspiration never comes again That thing that keeps me working and alive, gone south in flocks, like ducks or geese Migrants in flight, pursue that deepest fear, the coming winter snows of barren thought One day there may be no returning flights, no beating wings to celebrate the spring A winter never ending and no words to write The flocks all hatch in other warmer ponds and rear their young alone, away from me The writer’s fear is not a morning thing, it fades, dissipated, lost before the early signs of dawn Sun that warms these frozen lakes, rises still and welcomes back the mating flights again Another season to hunt the ducks of words |
This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection THE SMELL OF TWEED AND TOBACCO available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats. |