Sometimes, I get mired in the mode of the sage,
The deluge of thinking, the whirlwinds of thought –
In time, my brain tires, like a cat in a cage,
Straining its vision through bars, overwrought.
And so, my perception succumbs to the slur
Of angels and demons and beacons that blur.
Of course, I aspire to be wise in the word,
To have the voice in me, to be in the light –
And then, I’m inspired to sing out and be heard.
The Light throws shadows, like segments of night;
The voice in my head has me telling the throng,
“It’s all in the music; it’s all in the song.”
The ice and the fire of the human intent,
Political currents, the moral debate –
These are the high spires, onto which I am sent,
The abysmal fountain of chance or fate;
Whatever the story, the why or the how
Has little meaning in the here and the now.
But, when I’ve acquired the design of a tale,
A fanciful moment, a fictional place –
I all but retire to ingather the hail
Of notions and whims that fall on my face;
And soon, I am tracing the words of the scheme,
Racing to find me at the dawn of a dream.
r. nuñez, 6/2013