I.
Pondering on a time-worn chair, at the empty desk, before the white, white sheet,
Experiencing the still flowing air through the lungs—inhaling, exhaling, respiring,
Perspiring under the heat of early summer, wrestling the still thoughts and blank images loitering in the mind,
Overhearing the ba-dum! badum! of the still flowing blood through the veins—
The same blood, every bit, what flows through you, reading, listening, and the valves ever opening, ever closing—
I cannot lift it, although much work is still undone—chemistry, history, physics, mathematics—in endless cycles.
The weight of the moons, planets, and all the stars fall unto my pen.
The muses are certainly silent today!

II.
Through the window, the sunlight streams in, and I see the world moving:
The little boy and girl, giggling, gamboling, galloping, and gushing, indulging in their light-hearted youth,
The moving of the worker as he toils and services his peers and trade,
The moving of the wife, decorating, preparing, and the moving of the husband, commuting, anticipating the comforts of evening.
All the word’s ablaze with velocity, agitated activity, the hustling and bustling of cars and cities, Each individual eager to ascend, to individualize, to transcend anonymity.
But from dynamism arises conventionality, from diversity, complacent homogeneity; from ambition, muted desperation; from differing desires, all the same.
The silence, conformity suffocate me.

III.
People, races, countries all compete to climb atop pinnacles of achievement.
Success becomes the compass of morality; its onto the next victim in another place and time, substituting wrong for wrong,
In histories of blood and vengeance, all under the name of religion, freedom, and law.
But why the egotism, chauvinism, jingoism, when we’re merely apples of varying colors and tastes?
Why the lust for fame, glory, and superiority, when we’re all humans born equally?
Why the competition and duplicity, when we’re endowed with the capacity for cooperation?
Some babbling, some emerging, some drying, some rushing, all following divergent courses,
Rivers—the Yellow, Red, Black, Orange, and White—all flow from one source.

IV.
Pondering on a time-worn chair, at the empty desk, before the white, white sheet,
I see the world still, and through the window, the pale moonlight streams in.
The coolness and quietude ring in the air an aura of content desolation,
For the night is still young, but will not last so long until, piercing the veins, the lungs, the mind, dawn comes,
Revealing a new day, perhaps a different day, hopefully a better day.
Pondering on the time-worn chair, at the empty desk, before the white, white sheet,
I lift the weight of all that has passed—the memories, mistakes, and regrets—and of all that is to come—the trials, obstacles, and friendships.
The silence, the chorus are deafening, and the ink pours forth.