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sometimes on nights like these, when the faint glow from the stars
illuminates a bit more than i tend to realize, the music
playing through my head dances and sways something ethereal,
warm and inviting, like magic. and there is magic in these words,
in the way that these summer nights make them bloom,
tender in such repose.
and sometimes on nights like these, i find myself chasing ghosts
and vapours, more often than i’d like to be and when i finally catch
up to them they slip through my hands, through my fingers
and i lose them for days, maybe centuries.
i want to take these ghosts, maybe memories and
trap them in my pen,
and write ten thousand sonnets, and bleed prose
from my wounds, before i whither away into
the terrible expanse of nothingness, perhaps oblivion, i do not know,
but my muses are fickle, and disappear
faster than i can control.

my dear, my darling, i take bits of myself and
scribe them onto my arms and slash the markings
like engraving runes upon my soul
to protect me from the harshness of winter and the
fear of waking up alone
and my fears of never writing my immortal poem..
wasting away in some
electronic historian’s footnote.
i take these words and twist them all for you,
fashion them into something beautiful,
tend to them just as they are a very extension
of myself,
in the grand hope that you would never leave me
without a voice to stand on
in this terribly noisy world.

but sometimes, on nights like these, it is all i can do to let this music
crash over me like an eternal wave, a sea of noise
and tranquility, rising and falling to the ebb of time
and let it spin my head like a fever dream, so i wake up
twisted and tormented, but alive
and in the morning, if i raise my voice to speak
then for this moment i am doing fine.

– r.f.g


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