For a few weeks

For a few weeks

a question has

beckoned me,

fluttering around my

ears;

I have tried

to tease out

the answer,

sought insight.

There have been

many fleeting

intoxicating clues,

echoes deep

of my soul’s search,

but nothing concrete.

Slowly, I slipped

into a sort of

despair

as the outside world howled

at my door.

I so hate to

squander even

one second of

dearest mythical June;

yet, I was there,

consumed by

whispered relentless

fatigue

with thoughts

tending towards

darkness:

mine but not me.

I forgot

at the threshold

of transformation

that creation is

coupled

intimately

with destruction.

Whilst I still

linger in the quiet

of not knowing in

which direction

my paintbrush tends,

it is unequivocal:

I am reaching an end.

And I have an inkling

that there is much to learn

from early summer evenings;

pink, beaming,

stretching luxuriously

like a puppy belly,

and the quiet, the calm

only broken

by sweet blackbirds at dusk

gifting us to the

beauty of song

and the unmistakable

peals of poignancy.

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