The Spirit Of Creativity Poem by DM W

Within this crude body of flesh & bone,
My spirit is like a flimsy curtain:
Swept this way and that by the slightest breeze.
Like a world weary traveller, it is
Often lost among strange lands & surreal skies.
It seeks soft sanctuary. Yet among
Amorphous shrieking crowds it is drowned out.
It's forced to dwell high above in the wings,
As it patiently watches life's futile,
Pantomime scenes unfurl like shadow plays
And pale dreams from another time and place.
It's like a troubled ghost; never finding
Peace with itself; always doubting the worth
Of what it creates. At times, it's joyous:
Warm and snug in the singularity
of its utterly cosmic solitude.
And that's invariably productive.
Time is suspended and one is immersed
In a golden eternity of bliss.
And that's when I feel the best work is made.