Dull time creeps by in so many intervals;
Our thoughts have run dry, the natural spring gleaned once too often
Or not enough;
We stare at the minutes-turned-days that go on forever,
Yet end too quickly to accomplish anything—
The bane seems well set—
Nothing more we can do but wait, and hope,
And pray to whatever Powers That Be for a miracle,
Or, at the very least, a mirage.
Then they descend upon us... in the small hours, we still find it
Hard to believe that they have finally come;
Those tiny bits of genius that tweak our brows at the most
Unexpected moments... few and far between, but greatly treasured;
These are the fragments and pieces that can’t be forced—
Worked upon, yes, but never quite conjured—
Then they are gone in an instant,
And we cannot know when we shall next merit their sweet kisses
Upon our dreary minds; but there is some consolation:
At least we had them.
Maybe the brighter days to come will call them forth again.
Far worse when they are there, fluttering like moths about the candle of our consciousness,
Never near enough to be caught, and cannot be lured;
Instead, they dance—teasing, beckoning, drifting just beyond our tentative grasp—
Smiling coyly one moment, then vanishing in the next, leaving us
Unfulfilled and confused, yearning for that moment...
That glorious moment...
When they will cease their taunting and appear as they are, mysterious and wonderful,
Catalysts to the creation of something that will last;
And yet, we know that it is not merely our creation—it was a melding, a union;
The intercourse, however brief, between the incorporeal and the sublunary:
The thought and the mind;
Each delighting in the other’s presence, making the most of every moment
Until they are parted by the corruption of mortal frailty;
Yet, for that one blissful moment, they are one...
We are one...
And the beauty left in our wake leaves the world breathless.