Renaissance of Thought

Sometimes a march.
Sometimes a quiet coasting on feathered wings.
Sometimes an un-catchable faerie it flits around outside, its drumbeat a static:
Erratically fast yet dependably there.

Always a fragile stillness late in hour,
well past sunset in any time zone.

It might be past Cinderella's last hour when my renaissance of thought comes traipsing through.

This ability to turn scribbles on a page into words into feeling is a fragile art.

Give me solitude in darkness and a heavy dose of nostalgia and I'll have three or more in your hands by morning.

But this motion,
This monotony,
This repetition of up and down,
predictably so...

This will be the death of me.