A Weary Poet

Buried in blue and yellow, Beneath fire blankets And a bold maroon comforter, One sheet lumped in a corner, I am just warm enough To be unselfishly conscious Even of my own thoughts… Absent of physical strain, Tired, I try to focus While holding my magic pen, Which carries a precious secret? But it floats away Like music once it passed The secret way While going out preserved, Totally undisturbed… Suddenly, I heard a loud voice This seemed to remove the distance, Perhaps, it was my soul, Speaking to me of worthy things Or urging my heart to be willing… Now, I am seeking more Than hiding behind my weariness, Looking into the darkest bright, Seeing riddles hidden in my soul And questioning at the same time My broken and stubborn heart, Why do you still refuse To reconcile with my eased mind? No answer precipitates the air Breathing this weary poet… ©All Rights Reserved-2011