A Writer Lives a Thousand Lives

Why does the night rob me of my tales?
Why do words trip my poetry?
Empty papers yearn for me, oh Potente of the times, let me live my words and tell my stories.
What else do I have?

an inkling.

I have an inkling that if you do exist, 

you’ll be a meliorist winter storm,

an obscure stonewalled church,

a reflective forest silence,

the most seductive harmony,

that would unassumingly and effortlessly tie my world together. 

Who Am I?

And one day, you would have run your life’s race.

You would have crossed every flag point civilization set up on its way.

But you still wouldn’t know the answer to the most primitive of questions:

‘Who Am I?’