Feelings hang from the rafters of thoughts.
No surprise they are too rowdy to chill
and submit to inventory.
Wearing my resolute game face,
I leap into the maze of distressed neuropathways
that are wild, writhing and fed up with triteness.
I shudder at the chaos of figurative meanings
that keep forgetting their point.
Skirting the hubbub, I duck down an alley
so forlorn and forbidding that
I’m frightened of the verbiage ahead.
Unnerved and undone I am unaccountably lost.
Outside of my area of expertise like a tourist
like a tourist who has bumbled into a sketchy neighborhood.
And it’s there in my vertigo of doubt,
perched on the edge of “What if I suck”?
That’s when it comes,
The tiny ding in my soul,
shuttling up to my brain,
And leaking from my pen
Onto the profusely thanking God page.
Like a shooting star, it tends to come after midnight,
A radiant something from nowhere,
Written on the blue-black sky.
Marte Riley
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