Solitude is a double-edged sword.
Enough opens portals to imaginings.
Too much leads to loneliness and despair.
Writers balance on the sword’s edge.
Sometimes illuminating marvels;
sometimes weeping in the wilderness.
Engaging the silent, inexplicable universe
can cause either vision or tremens.
The coarse, raw materials of poetry:
a marriage of ecstasy and horror.
Everything is a potential lesson
and Death whispers: Better learn fast.
Poets sort through endless words
hoping to discover incantations,
the arcane formulae that assuage
the pain of a broken world,
a magick to transmute life’s lead
into lovely, golden sentences.
It is an alchemy both empowering
and fraught with hapless failure.
A challenge for a challenged heart,
solved best when the razor’s edge
of solitude slices the soul,
and cutting, makes it whole.