My soul is a wolf.

My soul is a wolf, running over winter hills, traces in the snow, starlit;
aurora crowning me in green and gold and blue, ancient star-fire

– running with the storm, the clouds, towards a blood-red moon, dipped in gold and drops of silver,
running, running, breathing icy air, lungs on cold fire,
going, going, keep going, running through nights,

dark and starry velvet curtains parting like nowhere found in city walls, not anymore,
and the wolf keeps running.

~~~

Listening to Heather Dale while looking at pictures of beautiful stars, nebulae, and northern lights makes me feel my inner wolf again.

poet’s mind on the run

Maybe a poet’s mind has to be on the run most of the time in order to create and cover enough ground for all those thoughts.
So keep writing, keep writing, and never stop.
When the paper runs out, write on snow and concrete and whale backs.
Write on lanes and avenues,
keep scrawling and thinking and keep the words coming,
fill city voids with cursive and cover scycraper walls in the boldest letters you can muster.
When the words run out, keep running.
A poet’s mind on the run will cover miles of desertlands,
but at the end of the day there’s a chance to rest on tree stumps beneath clouds of words,
and the words they will keep falling, falling in place
in a poet’s mind on the run.

 

 

 

~

Dear brain, you are very annoying. Please shut up for a moment. I’m not interested in purple jellyfish and their connection to street lamps. Arrgh. Anyone wants to trade brains with me? >.<