Aria for ink.

Have you ever walked outside into the rain and spent some time with it? The romance of it alone is astounding; sort of like a piece of music that invites you to step outside of your normal environs. I have a certain love for specific pieces of music that take me well beyond the painted sheet rock of my office. I see perpetual movement whenever the keys of an organ are played by specific organists (such as Mozart) and when Chopin plays a piano … time ceases to exist.

Sometimes I am so overwhelmed with the musical pieces that I find it hard to breathe.

It’s similar to stepping outside during a torrential downpour and walking in it towards the ocean. The more it builds, the thinner the air. I am gasping and left fighting for more! It is moments like these that lay down the foundation to poetic verses I have written like this one:

“The bricks are built of one succinct,
as high as ceiling blue,
covered with noctilucent sheets,
distinct with scintillas of dew,
behold the wall of the suffering,
built from dreams of few.”

Poetry should always rip the air from your lungs and cram you soul into a lingering aria that injects you with its serum, and leaves you crawling on the floor shaking like a junkie needing more. It is the music of the truly invested souls that rent the poet the ink for his or her pen—that pouring rain, that roaring thunder, that darting lightening … that’s the fuel of your creative soul screaming at you to finish that poem, or write that book!


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