The Slow Drip Poem by Leria Hawkins

Sometimes I speak in rhythm
Whispers free falling from places unseen
A rambling rhyme of muddled madness
Or a verse of dreamless drifting
Spilling out in near-perfect cadence

Other times, a song rises like sunshine
Trilling sweet as a bird on the wing
Heralding hymns of joys, of hearth and home
Or butterflies flit ov'r waves of rolling green
Crooning verse in a graceful lilt of motion

Oft times midnight comes to rain sparks on the leaf
Painting pictures in hues of my tortured soul
The inks of red, of black, of blue or gray
Spelling out the deep dark secrets of my proclivities
Gossiping relentlessly to a world of prying eyes

My muse, forever impassive, neither my friend nor foe
Arrives late to the party, unapologetic
Either brilliantly keen or dreadfully uninspiring
Like a game of hide and seek, tag…you're it!
Never staying to see it through to the end

Mostly, there's prattle in mind-numbing repetition
The droning of minutiae from a drowning soul
Confessions veiled in a thin ruse of poetry
Truth and lies and outrageous fabrications
Inebriated by the slow sip of whisky or wine

Glorious sunshine, dark clouds, and perfect twilight
Bear witness to the trail of travesties
Letters, trappings of consciousness smeared messily across the pages
Bits and bytes traveling obediently along the wires
Forever enshrining, the slow drip, meant for no one

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Copyright © 2019 Leria Hawkins, All Rights Reserved