I write at dawn, cockcrow peering
Fascinating my soul with its inquisitive beam
Audacious mind streams,stirring and sniffing.
I write, dislodging my being,
Like an alien primed to unravel
From the cradle.
I write, listening to my heart speak,
Eyes searching, pen strutting, lips quaking
In docile tones,
Hearts ducking in clicks as the clock peals its chime
To keep yet another count.
I write my fertile imaginings,
Cloaked in lucid allegory,
Altruistic beyond words,
A muse born from entrenched experiences,
Cracking into bits of matter.
I write with cadence
That trots aloof with fervor.
I write with subtle impetus, dazzling
My weary fingers with unfeigned verve.
I write, sharing each moment lived
And shedding unspoken pains that lie bare,
Still in a dark labyrinth.
I write with no caution,
Awestruck by a wave of phantoms.
I write fluidly in fluffy furbelows that emblazon,
Gliding me toward extinction.
I write, scorching as fingers bleed, never tiring,
As I perspire beneath Atlanta’s sultry sun.
I write at dusk; I write at twilight,
When the skies and moonlight
Herald my restless indulgence.
I write in love; I write for you and me.
I write uncurbed; I write untamed.
I write me.
I write poetry.
I am poetry in motion.
By Joan Alfred Roberts
