The muted hush of night, the throb of silence. The “hiss” that hurts. The incessant pounding of a dripping faucet. In the relentless din, a lone candle flickers. Seeks to befriend, quill in hand, the poet?
Bleary eyed, ponders, the die cast, forever set? Its sense relegated mired in the mundane, and yet, once ever so infrequently a fleeting truth. Nevermore than a thread, a straw in a stack, searches, a thought, a word, a sentence.
Deep into gloom, hours before first light brandy snifter still in hand, music and spirit pour over his ever-unquiet mind.
Humanity, bereft, neither inclination nor recrimination, the here, the now, fleeting moments.
Sadly, he proffers, “They have no idea! They just don’t know!” And they don’t, not a one. The poet’s curse.