"Back in the day," I had a technique of writing which Stephen will recall. I would sit down at my computer, or with pen to paper, and attempt to clear my mind completely. Then my hands would move as of their own accord, and strange pieces of poetry would come out. We called it "letting the spirits write," or "automatic writing." I have not tried this in a very long time--I didn't feel capable of it, or worthy of it-- but I was inspired to try a bit this morning. This is what I got.
How high, how high must I climb
before I can see where I should go?
How long, how long must I walk
before the path becomes clear?
Ever my way is shrouded in fog,
ever my view obscured by cloud.
A day will come without light,
without power humming in the lines,
without purple fluorescence,
when the only music is what we make.
Maybe on that day, I will see.