I've been looking forward to Autumn for some time now. There's something about the changing colors and falling leaves that seem so cathartic.
I guess as a poet, it's an opportunity to rekindle a smoldering flame. I must admit I've been on some sort of poetic vacation for over a year now. I've been able to write by using prompts or exercises, but what so freely flowed has been damned up for some time.
It's almost like a death. The death of thoughts or emotions which fuel the pen to scribble. I feel almost soulless at times. Maybe I'm in a metamorphsis stage right now, and what is soon to break free of the cocoon (which holds my thoughts hostage) will set me on another journey down a different poetic highway.
Regardless, I've taken a positive look at this and have done some rearranging and clearing. Soon this old pen which gathers moss and these dust filled pages will replenish and flow like the mighty Amazon River.
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