The poet turns his face to the heavens -
He knows this feeling, this need to write;
This craving, like a junkie's tainted curse.
He ought to have known this would occur.
His sleep is disturbed with webs of words -
His days are spent scrawling them down;
As he looks ever up, his eyes are aglow -
This seizure of need makes him wild.
A mind whirling around like a dervish;
Thoughts like deep rainbows of emotions
From the myriad pool begin to clear.
With quill in hand, his parchment aches......
Ink flows to paper; he brings them to bear
Like lovers who are too long apart;
From this point, he becomes a conduit,
For the heart's quickening, that bleeds freely.
While the pen pirouettes beneath his breath,
A tale of love lost and songs sung sweetly
Plays out on the ancient manuscript.
When he awakes, his eyes well with music.
But melody and music are not what they seem -
He has travelled this road before;
These webs of words that smother his mind
Will weave forever more.
He shakes in the night - his night is his day -
It won't stop, of that he is sure;
His heart can bleed white; his ink can dry up -
But the words will always want more.
Michael Moran and Ben Pickard
26.7.15
I would like to thank Ben for being arguably the nicest guy on this site. It has been a pleasure and an honour to collaborate with you. I am proud to post this and have your name alongside mine.
