What is there to write about
Why do we write at all
what if all’s been said and done,
why do we care at all?
about the bushes or the birds
the songs and lullaby’s
to those who write of wistful clouds
that are the inkdrop skies.
and listless, free consistent circles
to pass few faces by.
Like carnivals with neon lights
that shine brilliant in the night
the words at night, they blur
One time or twice God rolled the dive
and shuffled us in turns
the old men with their torn notebooks
who have the time to bide:
with their pens they close their eyes
blurry figures in the rain
where then transcribed to page
became a melody and it sang.
What is there to write about
If all’s been said and heard
About the lies and butterflies
Sang by we mourning birds;
About the faces in the clouds
In listless circles went they round.
The music made by gamblers, gives
All the words make inkdrop skies.
Such images they blur with time
And each word dies along the lines
Just another nursery rhyme
Sometimes when your eyes are closed
You can see a picture show
Of whirling green, patterned white,
The shadows turn to imps at night
About the room their pirouette,
In the color of a silhouette
Dancing on the walls
Up and down they prance around
My room their seneschal;
In pairs they go in silent rows
As they flitter down the hall.
Children running in the rain
Their feet a pitter patter sang
Again and again old men with their pen
Think of something to type,
To get off whatever is on their chest
Just to try to get some rest.
brandon the writer | author & staff writer for sir swag 