I wake up here, to the sweet sound of nothing
To the peace and the quiet inside my head
To a hush, hiding in the dark
In the drowsy tranquility of your bed
I get lost in the deep lull of my thoughts
In the dulcet tones of my repose
I hear the faintest echo of your breathing
as it comes, and ever so gradually goes

I hear your body move across the sheets
You graze my ear, as you touch my hair
My arm brushes slightly against the duvet
 as I reach to find you there
I feel the weight of your head upon my chest
I feel the warmth of your hand on my thigh
The silence is broken, for the briefest moment
by the contented exhale of my sigh

Here, in the calm of your presence
Here, with the ease of your touch
There is a peace, here in this quiet
And it’s telling me so much
In the comfort of our silence
Here, within this soothing serenity 
I close my eyes, and I listen,
 and Sunday morning whispers to me

If there were just a few more hours
to this perfect time of day
If only, the din of our realities
would kindly stay away
If we could just keep the afternoon
on the other side of the door
We could stay here, in the stillness
and I could hold you, a little more

No words that I need to say here
In the peace of this quiet, I know
I want to hold on to this feeling,
 and to never let it go
Here, in the comfort of our silence
There is no place I’d rather be
I close my eyes, and I listen,
as Sunday morning whispers to me






The same stubborn scenario
The same view every night
A silhouette, close to the edge
A moth under the light
The echo of my thoughts
On infinite repeat
A schizophrenic mind field
Of two and a half feet

Turned one hundred and eighty
In a blanketed cocoon
A butterfly to a moth
Under the light of the moon
A stark and palpable silence
An insurmountable rut
Urges, kept at arm’s length
Until my eyes flutter shut

Take me back to my muse
Release me from this storm
From the cold of my creation
The bitter back to the warm
From this tempest in a teapot
 These chilling winds of blame
 The frigid reality each night
The moth back to the flame

An exasperating tug of war
Across a span of diminished hope
There has to be some solace
Near the end of my rope
Nothing that I can do or say
Changes, impervious to gain
The collateral damage is done
A consequence to the pain

So many months, eaten away
The thin fabric of a ruse
Resentful of my own creation
 A moth disguised as a muse
Rose-coloured tunnel vision?
Wishful thinking all along?

For the sanity of lost time
It would help if I was wrong

Take me back to my muse
Release me from this regret
From the pall of uncertainty
That hangs over me yet
From the now back to the then
The difference of day to night
To open arms and an open mind
To a butterfly, in a better light



 I hear the furnace kick in, on this cool morning.
An awakening nudge, from within the silence…
my creative silence.

It is then that I notice,
gradually notice more
The nuances of early morning
Just outside my door
The stillness of the lake
The shadows near the shore
A family of four ducks
And behind them two more
A peaceful place to begin my day
Alone, with some time to explore

A window to an opened mind.
A unique view, from within the silence…
my creative silence.

The façade of my introspection
Protective, but paper thin
Accessible, in the early morning
Without the voices or the din
An undisturbed opportunity
To summon, from within
The chance to visit places
Where I have seldom been
Insights, subtly perceptible
Like the drop of a pin

The sound of my ideas resonates,
clearly audible to me, from within the silence…
my creative silence.

Discernable refrains of thought
Echoing inside my peaceful shell
The intricacies of perception
From the depths of my well
The complexities of emotion
The conflicts that I must quell
Lost, and found, in the early morning
Immersed in what to tell
A place to elevate my opinions
Up from where they fell

I find my positive inspiration,
emerging, from within the silence…
my creative silence.

The early morning moves me
As the words start to flow
Drifting through the shadows
Like the ducks, in a row
Lines of innate substance
Gaining momentum as they go
Buoyant, lucid, more certain
Shedding inhibitions as they grow
Brought into the morning light
From this tranquil place I know

The quiet of the morning finds me here.
Where I can hear myself think…
within my creative silence.


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