A Poet's Nightmare

I was asleep or dead (you see.)
T’was night and bright
and quiet and quite
crowded with people
mouthing non sequiturs.

Bach and Rock
oozed from tube
like tooth-paste
candy cane striped mint
bland on brush,
Brandenburg and Beatles
between bated breaths.

Hazard Hawk perched
peering through leafy shadows
swaying in the silent bower.

Waiting for: What?
My command, to take wing
and shriek sounds
that I interpret
as sentences?

My Muse in feathery flight?

I write furiously
all that has transpired
for meaning and rhythm.

I have it all.

I awaken.

I forgot.

TP/MMXIV