A Well Lit Way, To My Field Of Stories. Poem by Michael Gale

Ah yes! I'm moving towards my well lit way to my field of stories.
The warm wind of the Oklahoma clay can be felt upon the hairs which stand up on the back of my neck.
Is this the holy spirit bristling movement through these hairs and goosebumps multiplying and branching out their expanding paths?
Daily the clacking of computer keys can be heard echoing throughout
this author's house.
Busiment of an artistic venue eminates surprisingly from my sweating
bespeckled face.
The tic of the clock starts this literary endeavor's race with Father Time
for a deadline close at hand.
I beseech thee, stand still, sweet time of mine.
Let me progress uninterrupted, so a poem may form past deadline's
inward rushing storm.
Stagnate time, but not my schedule.
Alas! Time does rule. oh, how terribly cruel.