Sand Dunes of Truelove's Eclipse

Everything I have ever done has lead up to this moment. Moments when I sit down to think, moments where I let myself flow, when I let go of each memory I've been holding onto, each particle that makes me who I am. Entangled in dilemmas. I've started the poem in three different ways, watching things fall into place. Staring at the paper but I almost have no clue, no idea where to start. I am soaked in impeccable regret. Soaked in thoughts of consecrating my life, wanting to make a better, worthy change.

A strange silhouette apprehended in dreams of freedom and success, and speaking of himself in tongues, has tried to find the words to portray the trouble he has found himself in. Sat at the same old bureau plat, writing another dossier, interminably. Writing rivers of saccharine poetry about beach days. I made the cover of the pamphlet myself and stored it safely in a briefcase, moon at the terminus. The perfumed dye drips from the mealy-mouthed nib. I think of my brain, what if the pen didn't work? What do I want to say? Where do I begin, with all the things on my mind today?

I try ever so desperately, unable to think. I have thought of nothing much since I woke up and dove into a blank page of frustration that's ineluctable. Tonight I hope I can sleep, when the cooker is off, the appliances are dead, the curtains are closed, the lights are out. There is no doubt the niggling needs to be killed. I won't be satisfied until the day is fulfilled, until the fruits of my labor materialize, until the sky is clothed in dark clouds and the moonlight in the intimate night of a whimsical city drinks me. If nothing comes from my feeble attempts, I feel as nugatory as all the snails I've saved, picked from dangerous pathways. In a brown study. Unheeding. Dreaming of men holding hands, so romantic. Eyes into souls. Drunk love spilling everywhere.