Poet not Author

We are not made for plots today
But for flowing words which pepper and perfume our minds
We are not made for timelines or arcs
But for the joy and flow, the glow of words
Like moonbeams, and bathed and harboured

We are sometimes here to talk of leaves
or the sounds of foxes mating in the night
We cannot always edit and prune and cut to the bone.
Allow me to float, to rush, to become steam which rises
And never falls

Inside we ask for words.
Outside are colours with shades I‘ll never capture on the page
On days like this I can only write as me, not her, not them
My madness, my bone- gnawing love and pain
The author's intrusion.
Illegal, Banned.
My passion alone on a page,
there just for me, like drawings in the sand.
I breathe out. Exhale all here so I may return to her, to them,
So I may write them well, for you.