The Spirit Of Creativity

Within this crude body of flesh & bone, My spirit is like a flimsy curtain: Swept this way and that by the slightest breeze. Like a world weary traveller, it is Often lost among strange lands & surreal skies. It seeks soft sanctuary. Yet among Amorphous shrieking crowds it is drowned out. It's forced to dwell high above in the wings, As it patiently watches life's futile, Pantomime scenes unfurl like shadow plays And pale dreams from another time and place. It's like a troubled ghost; never finding Peace with itself; always doubting the worth Of what it creates. At times, it's joyous: Warm and snug in the singularity of its utterly cosmic solitude. And that's invariably productive. Time is suspended and one is immersed In a golden eternity of bliss. And that's when I feel the best work is made.