The Artist’s Plea

Leave me this
I ask not more:
A sacred place
In which to store
A thousand dreams,
Unbroken thread,
Unspooled and loosed
From in my head.
Dreams of stars
or wooden floors
Where cats may creep
Past darkened doors
And I awake
Sit in repose,
A bachelor in
His threadbare clothes
With one bright eye
Pressed to perceive
Some meaning in
This soft reprieve,
A blessed lull
Between the days
When judgement gnaws
And self-doubt plays
Unhindered like
A wrathful child
Who tramples on
The meek and mild:
Those subtle thoughts
That swirl and flit
Above the chair
In which I sit.
I do not think
I’ve found the spot
To shield me from
My own mind’s rot,
So all I ask
Of page and pen
Is to receive
These words again.

— 8 June 2005