I too have indulged instinct’s conspiracy;
paid homage to night wind’s whispers.
I have been visited by visions of spanning clouded atmosphere in flight,
the placating presence of Mr Moon’s watchful eyes
guiding me home across snowy glades.
These feet have squelched starlit sand grains
edging swollen lakewombs in which I conceived eternity,
thinking I was the only one.
If we tire of nature poetry – of any poetry –
it is because these thoughts have never been new.
Sensations linger just below closed eyelids,
tentative fingerpads; everything always familiar,
In crowds such as these you’ll find
the same plotline, incestuous;
interwoven within itself a thousand times.
No point in copywriting…
all is counterfeit.
It’s so typical.
What disgusts me most is…
it’s so typical for two plotlines
like ours to interweave
I wish I could claim originality.
Wishing I could trace backwards through arcs,
for anything that tastes that way…
wishing instinct really was just a conspiracy
one could choose whether or not
to buy into.