I am a buzzing.
The kind that irritates an insomniac into more waking hours.
Within and around each tick and tock a mineral thought will surface and glamour me into movement.
But it’s merely iron pyrite that winks back at me through the silt.
I try, of course, to dredge the canals and rivers of my mind, yet only find rotting bags full of words with single syllables jumbled up at the bottom, amidst the septic water.
I arrange them as best as my tired mind is able, like a drooping Bowie, on to the table of my spirit.
They sometimes tell a tale.
They sometimes set a tiny mirror for others to see themselves in.
You, however, you true poets, are a SYMPHONY already in concert!
Fingers dancing and shimmering over your notes: adjectives pirouetting across your stage; verbs acknowledging the god-hand gift you have with an appreciative nod.
I sit at the back of the swelling auditorium, knees tucked into chest, rapt by your virtuosity, jaw swinging, wishing that I could play your instruments.
Praying to the universe and beyond that one day soon I will lay down my thoughts in such a manner that even a quark of a comparison could be made.
Until then I will sit, spar, admire, seethe, savour and bow to your brilliance.