Light
The Southern Cross floats in thought
as Pandora’s Box sits in the backdrop.
Sleep and weakness we once fought,
Now wasted away by the rider’s crop.
Keyboards click, the pens write eager,
music and philosophy echos The Word.
Bellies cry with emaciated hunger,
Fast food, crap food, quite absurd.
Blocked in, kept from flowing forth
words are hard to find, to come by
cheapness, truly of little worth,
it is a writer’s most pitiful cry.
The night gives way to early light,
the sun slowly makes its sojourn.
Casting down nightmare’s fright,
to renew the light, we are reborn.
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