The wise screech owls call in rasps not meant for the weak at heart.
A call to arms for the souls ready to leap
out into the dark caverns where ideas are born and pencils set down onto paper
where feet travel through the space like paint brushes soaked with black ink
treading a path forged and unforged by all who have come before.
These caverns house echos of last year's shouts and you hold your weapon ready
to defend yourself against warm gusts like belches from the earth's core.
Darkness dissolves all shape and form as no shadows can be casts in this pitch black interior.
You scoot your feet ahead in the dry earthen floor, drawing lines of uncertainty that grow bolder as you listen to the screech owls outside and press ahead toward the unknown.
A poem not meant to be anything remarkable. Just a poem to reflect the turning over of my mind. I have found the brilliance about poem writing for me, is that I am completely untrained (formally) so I can just write in a luscious ignorance that I no longer have in the rest of my life. I can't beat myself up for "knowing better" and I would like to keep it that way. For now.