woodandhoney

Who sees the wretched filthy hands sneaking into your cerebrum?

Those long thin fingers attached to those icy old hands,

Smudging all happy thoughts with their dirty digits,

Leaving little mounds of dirt to slow down the connection of syntaxes,

Making a slow and messy hulk of anything else that might have resided there before,

Making your upstairs bedroom as dirty as the basement, uninhabitable for Keats and Mozart, Steinbeck and Van Gough—

“I’m very sorry, but today is just no good Mr. Keats.  Will you take a rain check?”  Always a gentleman, he agrees, leaving you to sort out your dirty laundry in private.—

The chances of finishing that piece of art, that masterpiece, that testament to the grandeur of life, have sprouted wings and flown out the window with a delicacy lacking in your current condition

There is not much to do so best not to try, go crawl under the covers and let that soft golden voice, the one you have pondered that might belong to what you call your soul, take over and do what needs to be done to restore and repair