what is process if not a cage

there is a certain magic in the air

it bends not to human will

a voice that lives sometimes in the stars

and at others in the sea

I heard it once in the chirp of a vole

when she poked her head out near to me

for lack of a better name call it muse

or the whisper of angel wings

but when it speaks tarry not

for the words quickly fade

when you fail to trap them on the page

I have seen things that others never see

and listened to voices that only I have ever heard

some call me storyteller and others just an old fool

a poor scribbler of old-fashioned poesy

who thinks he's heard choirs of angels

and witnessed El Diablo in his mirror staring back

you ask me for my process

as if such a thing might translate to another's pen

but what is process if not bringing order to the chaos

abiding in me or living in you?

what is process if not a cage

that cows rather than tames the wild beauty of nature

or the invention of literary devices

that spoil and soil art rather than ennoble it?

art should be worship

or a mountain that none can climb

the debauchery of man

or the innocent beauty of human nakedness

sadly, a lot of art is just shite

the scribblings of those who lie to tell the truth

or tell the truth to preserve the lie

but in my dreams, art is the impossible brought to life

and in my arrogance and madness

I wish to do and be all these things, even the shite

for I am human after all even as I desire to soar like an angel

but in the quiet moments

when I somehow express the heartfelt murmurs

that ache wordlessly in my bones

I weep hoping others grieve with me

is that art, hubris or simply the honesty of self-expression?

am I an artist

or simply an old man longing for what he has lost?

...