I think I hear my soul beckoning
it's nothing more than a whisper
right now
but it’s a whisper gone mad
and I have a feeling
it will soon erupt into frantic screams
and contorted cries
for that
tantalizing
oasis of serenity
and it will only be met
with a vain attempt at appeasement:
empty pages filled with desperate blanks
paradoxical shelves of books sealed
with discontent lines
didactic life tales spawn from
failure
misery
sorrow
all preaching
of tomorrow
as the manifestation
of darkness before dawn
but there's more day to dawn?
the sun is but a morning star?
well, stars are sublime
and are rather fine
to look at in the night
when darkness pervades
and with it
a sense of camaraderie
with the universe
so I suppose sublimity
is the next best thing
to serenity
and I suppose
I will concede
to the esoteric knowledge
of thoughts unsaid
diaries unread
and slumber
laid to bed
I suppose I will
just have to
awaken my
emerging soul