Poet to poet, heart to heart,
a time to stop or a time to start . . anew ?

What's new with you anyway ? Or are you still coming down ? From high ?

In the dark, alone with only a flickering candle for guidance, you see things
others do not. You feel things others do not.

And so . . . . you leave . . you escape . . reality. For your world.
Your world . . . where things are considerably different. Your world . . where
the power of the pen in your hand can . . move mountains . . if you so
desire. Your world . . where you are the master !

What would happen if we couldn't get all the way back . . from our world ?

I think that's where I am now. I want to come back, but how ?

But then again . . . why ? Am I not my own master here ? I make . . .
the warm rain that gently falls upon the two of us . . . here in my world.
I take the bad, here in my world . . . and make good of it. I can stand
upon the cliffs of pain, beside the ocean, and will the foamy waves away.
The waves of despair that erode the hardest stone, but then, with a
change in tone, are gone for another day.

Late last night, as I walked through the halls of solitude here . . I thought
I could hear . . . other poets walking down other hallways . . close by.

Were they trying to get back . . . too ?

And where are you . . . now ?

He don't care fer them thar points and such,
when asking a question . . becomes just too much . . to respond to.

Collaboration . . . what collaboration ?

Where do all of the poets go during daylight hours ?

Do they only come out at night ? What time is right ?

The thoughts, their thoughts, . . seep out in the dark, when they
are alone, to be expressed in anguish, written in anger or through
tearing eyes, scoffed at and erased, jotted down and replaced, . .
time and again . . it never ends . . the haunting of their souls.

A poet speaks words
that stick in the throat
and burn with fury.

My pen has darkened.

Impotentence embraced, seeking refuge
I wander

Alone, but not lonely.....

Contradiction in blood and ink.

Silence is not my master.

"Alone, but not lonely . . ."

Scribbled lines from in their minds,
fire from in their hearts,
views of that which others miss,
indeed sets them apart.

"Alone, but not lonely . . . it's, . . it's . . only . . .

their visions . . we hear."

Upon my arrival the fanfare played
A welcoming greeting fair to see
Yet now the opening strands do fade
And my dreams are beckoning me.

Do I give in now, and myself resign
To sleep, perchance to dream
And find those visions marked as mine
Hold wicked bone beneath their gleam?

The curve of echo, the fold of faith
The tampering down of Time
The sweep of tides, the writhing Wraith
The feeling of awakening sublime.

Now the shrouded mists of deeping glen
Do softly call with sweetest sound
And I find myself slipping again
In night thoughts drifting down.

Mayhap I'll return from slumber's rest
Renewed with a conqueror's stride
Or perhaps drained lonely from a night of jest
Find it illusion, and claim that You lied.

"Now the shrouded mists of deepening glen . ."

Brings a stranger . . foe or friend ?,
Into my forest, this sanctuary,
If I was you . . I would not tarry . . here.

Hear ? Yes, I hear . . your arrival. But, you've scared the birds away.
So how are you . . okay ?

Today . . I have a visitor . . it is you. Can you help me ? Wait . . .
I don't need help, just an honest answer to an honest question.

"Is it right to stay here, and be the master . . or head on back and
hear the laughter . . . of reality ? "

My world, here in my mind, . . doth fade,
and so I hide, . . in glen and glade.