“Do you have a place you like to go to to write? Tell us about yourself, sir?”
Do I have a place?
a physical location,
or more metaphorically,
Historically there have been many,
as I reread words drafted so many years ago,
fields of battle that birthed a nation,
a ‘prison’ – symbolic ire of an expat
against a foreign land.
I scribe in a cave,
a corner tucked away underground,
removed from the sun,
devoid of history and purpose,
yet bordering on lands rich with craft
But this place is of yet empty,
and I have no yet into its few cubic feet
poured any fluence of meaning,
nor instilled therein
the distillation of thought,
and thus gilded the walls with depth.
I scrape the barrel of time,
eking a moment here,
a word there,
as I test this renewed bed
something nearly forgotten,
comfortable as old shoes,
memories of prior works
that need mending
I do not have a place defined,
thus you read many remnant words,
as the birthing of new verse
is laboring under this dearth of resource –
a lack of time
and of devotion of space.
I have built for myself a space,
and recently imbued it with mystery
With my blood,
and my thought,
I have constructed four walls and a roof,
hardly guarded against the elements,
yet rich in inspiration.
I believe that I shall go there,
for as of yet,
no word have I there uttered,
nor recorded of my own.
It has been a place of physic,
of thought bent to creation of form
rather than thought bent
to the recording of perception.
Perhaps the time is ripe?