PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Burning through the night with frazzled visions and petty dreams of grandeur.  The poetry does not rise.  The cool November air nips at my ligaments.  The trees are barren.  The night is sullen and I fuse the pen to my fingers.  I try to seep my blood into the ink of the pen.  The magic is not there tonight.  I clutch the pen and stare into nothing.  I find nothing there.  I can not transcribe it into language.  Pestilence lurks but its fragrance doesn’t distract olfactory sense.  The cool Autumn air waltzed gracefully across the evening sky.  The petty dreams are still alive.  Viva les revés.

petty dreams dripping

seeping into pure vision

pushing poetry

casting out the pestilence

of modern society