Shedding My Skin, Again

You would think that with all the free time I have had over the last 3-4 years, I would have accomplished more writing. Nope.
The never-ending story of nothing.

Is my mind too numb, was my emotional chaos my muse?
Or did I just empty myself so completely that the light and dark have nowwhere to hide.

So many things inside have changed.
The darkness has faded to dawn. The light faded into dusk. Something going. And something coming.

At least the background colors are pretty.

Has the anxiety and depression gone into remission, to have no meaningful seranade.
But those things mean something, even if it not the forefront of my poetic escapades.

My Muse, no longer rides shot gun. Or she is nomming on a cheese burger somewhere. I miss her.

The place I prefer to be, one foot on earth in the consistent affirmatity and the other in ethereal infinity.
It is never gray there. The colors are the ones you usually see. You know exactly what they are and the constant possiblity. Then there is a prism within a prism of erotic eternity.
This is how I am, too much existing is a malady.

I ride my besom through the clouds, and jump into a constellation. Swimming through centuries of fantasies and dreams.  I'll stretch out among the stars and dally with all the possiblities.
If the dallying could be cement...the psychological crashes would no longer be eminent.