Often, I am the mercy of my internal critic. It waxes and wanes like tides under the influence of a full moon. Each word of my creations eroded by the crashing waves of scrutiny.
In rare moment, inspiration sails over the waters, no longer in search of the Isles of perfection.
Rarer still, when the object of inspiration is as perfect as the tranquil waters in a cerulean cove.
My lovely lady dreams,
in my waking moments.
Within these alabaster halls,
your presence permeates.
Like a somnambulist
You are forever in motion,
wading along the the depths
Arrayed in the matter of stars
Silently, I voice my longing.
Unwilling to disturb the weaver of dreams
As she settles at the loom cloistered
betwixt life’s echoing chambers.