“Something is coming to me . . .”
Rilke once spoke of ideas as a coming storm.
Who advocates for silence?
Our creative enemies remain nameless.
We see evil as cold, calculated, robotic
Because the warmth of emotions
Complicates the prospect of righteousness.
The way forward is simple.
However, I keep trying to convince myself
To extend beyond my contentment.
These philosophies swarm overhead,
Hover the shape of my malfortune-drenched identity.
Strange shapes or perhaps only shadows
Of disposition rain down all around.
I wish these clouds were but a dream,
The only part of us we can wipe away
Without the loss of experience.
But I must lay a mark upon every drop,
Arrythmic to their cascading,
Fallen upon the last
Unfinished; continuous; from sea to sea.
“. . . creativity is the unknown possible.”