The Poet Lost to Time

In slowing hands I raise surrender unto the rush of changing time, where every moment’s broken half defies me what is left of mine. I struggle twixt the foreign marks where chance to write seems barely there, for as they pass me by in space, accelerate with little care till suddenly months have passed…

The ink has dried the nib to stone, the well seems cold and deathly deep, no sudden burst of energy stems from any thought I grant or keep. The echoes haunt my stifled breath with whispers of my own design. The reaping of the torn page left to rot in dreams enflamed, benign.

Familiarly unfamiliar, the chill of distance culls my bone, to chance, to once remember the promise that is mine alone. My knuckles strain in horror through the pain that bends the pen to might, dowses deep the nib to blood of depths through fleeting wells of night. The page relents unwarily of the tragedy arcs of ink inscribe until the exclamation point drags fabric’s last resistant cry to rend the mad derision whole, flood the ebbing’s wild tide, release these pent up anxious lines through coursers dream and fleshy pride!

Yet so the distance broken, the stuttered thoughts unfold to gain a simple course, a token of the moments lost and dreams once slain, that now the pen in fervor may break its arc in strengthened tone, now the ink regained in trust will follow what’s inscribed in stone, and here my muse ignites its lust, here my dreams breathe new, here I stand one fleeting spot of time in portrait new.

As I stand above the mess of ink, above the fragile thought, I turn to hope tomorrow’s break, will land me in this moment caught, and not deny to fleeting time, not relent to days succumbed, but find the gentle prose of spirit and with it bring my dreams in sum.

There is a gap between the hours where precious hopes drift off to die. There is a moment’s silenced breath that stands to guard each question why that utters from the lips of time, when stalled its children slip there, so stays the pennant shield to chance and beckons home each thought in care.


Filed under Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

6 responses to “The Poet Lost to Time

  1. Peter Notehelfer

    You are such a craftsman with your words: your poems are like finely made maple furniture, each piece fitting into the other seamlessly as though so formed by nature herself. I have admired every verse you’ve written. Bravo!

  2. Jay, what a fine piece of prose… I keenly remember your fine poetry from dVerse… it would be so great to see you back again. 🙂

  3. Very good read. Enjoyed it very much.

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