Every morning I awake with the haze of
Promise hanging above my head
The morning dew is punctuated by the
Sharp light as the day yawns and offers so much
Anything can be filtered through the parameters of possibility.
That creative spark feels revitalised, feels fresh,
I feel like I have my little portion of genius
My own allotted quota of talent,
Held hostage somewhere in my gut
Or in my heart.
It’s in there and it’s never so ripe as in the
First breaths of the day, as though it plans
To sneak up on me and run amok through
All natural sensibilities.
I switch on my computer, lock into the internet
Immerse myself in rolling news, gossip blogs,
Status updates, online auctions and opinion pieces.
And the fog it slowly seems to lift
It clears and fades away, to leave a view
Of the horizon as far as the eye can see.
Only with this salience of vision
I can feel that little burning ember, that spark
Dying inside just a little bit.
But then I think –
Maybe it was never there at all,
And all I’d been trying to do
Was cling onto the fog
And chase away the harsh clarity of the day.
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