Forgotten seams, sacrificed dreams,
where have you gone, my liege,
lost there in the morning murk
and Sunday shuffle? Come to me,
bask in the first fibers of the day
on your pedestal at the water’s edge,
drowning in the scent of the mud.
Too long have I thought to train
these trains of thoughts on you,
pulling and stretching on the threads
in hopes of finding a thread to pull.
Come, light this darkening void,
beckoning patience and the unknown,
my muse, my other more sincere self.
Without you I am just me, whomever
that may be, and no more, no more.
About today’s poem:
Monday mornings are probably the hardest of days to find inspiration in. So much so, in fact, that King Turtle himself often eludes me.