Waiting

To stand while sitting, fly while sleeping
it’s all the jumble of gyrations
spun like a spider’s web of revealing
in a mind slightly askew of sanity.

But the quill in the hands
is still a wand to wave over every impulse,
waiting, ever waiting for it all to make sense
while running everywhere without moving,
in love with someone you can’t have
and feeling like being suddenly Alice In Wonderland
trapped in a fun house
located in a cemetery that is occupied
by fairies dressed as preachers of grammar.

Those are the whirlwinds of brain
brush by a muse who doesn’t care to define
what sways, seduces, surrenders and succumbs
over the heart and thoughts
during each interlude of dancing on poetry mines.

And it is passion driving by whim
carefully created in frail logic
that when it works, when it all make sense
the lips can boast it was planned.

Then when it drools as incoherent dribble
suddenly the lips try to give it point,
stopping on a precipice of excuses,
thanking god for literary licenses
that mercifully avoids the embarrassment
of explaining why
what was written
was not really artistry,
but just chaos carefully cloaked as verse.