Subconscious
Not sure how I got here,
with no time for sleep or life
let alone to write.
Inspiration?
A mere fabrication of my imagination
that I can't seem to control.
There's rarely a muse or a purpose,
just these words that flow from
my soul to the page in
chicken-scratched ink.
It happens only on occasion,
without provocation,
yet every time it's magic.
I never have a plan.
There's no outline or frame that can
visibly be described;
a lack of structure that seems entirely contrived
yet it feels perfectly and
whole-heartedly right.
There is no other way,
with the constant pace of the world,
to set aside a designated
time for such art.
Even sleep lacks a schedule
yet it somehow finds time...
The same with writing.
I'm unsure where I will end up,
which steps will have to be taken,
which bridges will have to be
crossed to reach my illusive
ultimate destination.
But I do know that where
and whenever necessary,
through the sleepless nights and
flickering lights
my pen and paper will always be present
to help me navigate the depths of my
subconscious insights.