Fabrications of the Night

How could you
Ask me for
Inspiration?
The one I have longed for,
Clawed my way to the side for,
Screamed into my head for?
There are things, yes,
That have graced my eyes and
Stirred my soul,
And I would sit, with my
Fingers like hail on a window,
Musing over what the muse had
Seeped into my bones.

Everything and nothing
Brings light
To my eyes and
Raging fires
To my brain and
Sheer purpose
To my hands.
A broken smile,
The history of
An old object,
Shadows out of the
Corner of my eyes or
The compelling plotline of
Something else,
Something old,
Something borrowed. 

I can find beacons anywhere, 
But I will say that
The only time I
Always transcend
My own awareness of existing,
Is under a sky so dark,
You have no choice but to
Wrap yourself in its
Blinking lights,
And in a silence
So deep and long
You'll wonder if anything
Was really meant to be.
Here, I am further from inhibition,
Fatigue fueling my mind,
To reach and grasp what I keep
To myself, to my true form.
To put myself on the page
Is no longer a task, but raw
Instinct of the highest order,
Something that was always
Part of me, and
Born to create.

I could swear I am
The fabric of stardust,
A child of the sky,
Suspended between seconds
Just to overflow
The page with truth
That has my shape.

So I stay, captivated by
My thoughts, which
I cannot even say
Belong to me at that moment,
Because inspiration,
The one I have stumbled after,
Tried to suffocate as it hurt me,
Put on the highest pedestal,
Turns you into
Someone new and yet the same
When all is dark
And madness comes out to play.

In the end, I am
Spent, but satisfied,
Energized, but exhausted,
Ready to hold my ideas close.
The products of
A cherished nocturne
To compliment the ringing
That persists in my head
Long after the deed is done.
It knows,
And waits,
For me to start again.
And I always do,
I always will.