Not so daft

I have been silent

but still I speak.

My creativity dampened,

though flourishing

in flame.

I’ve been invisible

in plain sight.

Doing nothing,

and busy still.

The river has altered course,

the old bed is dry,

but the rains

are coming.

Revealed in frost

I’d let my mind wander

to the times that were

but I’d be afraid

of what’s in my mind.

I’d discover

all the flaws,

and the frauds,

that I have become

in the ruins

that I would find.

I’d rather wander

in the dark

always unaware,

unashamed

in the naivete

of the here-and-now

(buried like some pained

expression pulled from my face).

Now every winter

melancholy,

like leaves left on the tree

stands out, in stark contrast,

like all the things

I promised I would be.

I’ll say it doesn’t matter,

that out on the horizon

is some solution,

but I know it’s not of my making

and that there’s simply

no truth in it.

Later, with winter settled-in,

and used to this malaise

I’ll cast my thoughts forward

once again

to the promise of Future Days.

I’ll let this placate me,

take me somewhere soft

and nice

and I’ll pretend I’ve set

a plan in place…

wouldn’t that be nice?