Awen

senses,

I remember the reap and feasts

of old,

I remember you.

There is a line of crimson-curled poesy

working deep inside

and it’s biting at my ribs

to be let out–

(this is Awen–when muse strikes and you are helpless before it.)

I’m trying,

oh I’m trying to live.

I’m trying to be real.

that’s what,

Shut Up.

It’s not like anything else I know.

~Melanie Thomason