The artist moon is calling
The one that makes the blood restless
And the mind discontent
The one that replaces sleep
With lightning storms of inspiration
The moon raises the spirit of dreams unrealized
And fantasies unlived
It whispers of wild woods and scented winds
Of primal needs and elaborate, lucid dreams
I am held captive in the moon's tides
Ebbing and flowing as I map my own constellations in its sky
And so my mind churns
My pen moves
Channeling the lightning into art
Painting the moon's energy with barely adequate words
In a desperate attempt to contain the results of its demanding influence
-gws
Please excuse the mess
This house is under construction
Held together by scotch tape and string
The foundation is rotten and weak
And there are bats in the attack
Making a terrible mess of things
At least the curtains are nice
-gws
I wander amongst the damp earth and moss covered trees.
I walk by the water where the stones are worn smooth and reflect on how life has polished and refined me.
-gws
I spill ink in controlled rivulets across an unstained page, setting down with curves and flourishes the tangled, unintelligible, intangible emotional illiteracies of my mind now transmuted into words and phrases, provoked into life, and now chained irrevocably into place by pen, hand, and mind.