nothing, really

there is so much i long to speak
stories to relay
tales of tragedy to weave

they all crowd my mind’s eye
pushing forward
to reach the front of the line

words brimming with details
drawing you in
and wrapping you up in their arms

artists using mysterious ballads
as their muse
my mind hanging in galleries

men quoting sweet love-words
to woo their ladies
under street lamps and starlight

a fearful child hiding
in the punctuation
waiting, hopeful, growing up

mothers finding solace
between worn pages
in the early morning silence

where do i begin?

the storehouse of my thoughts
has gathered dust
and become used to stillness

for now i will take up my pen
sweeping the cobwebs from this place
replacing the light-bulbs
finally back where i belong

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