Sunrise brings a longing for poetry
as Reflections on a window shine through-
red and blue paint the world-
and constellations are swamped by the sun.

It's the beginning of the end,
when the stars are held like a fugitive-
unable to escape-
they will go the distance, and return
solidifying remnants of reality.

When the sun clears the forest,
no longer a ghost among trees,
I flee to a school of secrets
where I learn the condemning consequences
of a time of courage.
Prophecies of pain can't touch me here,
though I long for words to find me.
Randomness fills my mind,
and ideas scamper away
before I can trap them on a page.

It is the last stand of the hopeless,
destinies of the deviant diverge,
and there is nothing to be done.
I once heard a Latin word-Memoria-
the moniker given to a memory.
That is all I have now-
memories of what writer's block stole.

As words resurface,
and I realize this will occur once more,
I resolve myself to the facts-
my ideas will vanish again when the beast arrives.
There is no curse of criminals
for the thief who took my goals of grandeur.
As I recognize this, it occurs to me.
For my creativity,
there is no safe haven.