I saw
Blank pages,
Blank books,
Unfinished poems,
Unfinished synopses,
Unfinished pitches;
I saw them everywhere.

I heard
Unspoken dialogues,
Undeveloped characters
Unrealized plots;
I heard them all night.

Too many
Worlds were swirling
In my head;
Waking, dream, creative, mundane
Were all begging, stealing, fighting
For my attention, my energy, my soul.

Too much, too much, too much
In this writer’s world
Being pushed aside ;
Creative opportunities,
Artistic potentials
Flowing like floodwaters
In all directions
Across an infinite plain.

Will my passion shrivel
If I don’t overfeed it?
Will my magician
Cease making his magic?
Will enslavement
And mediocrity
Be mine?

Meditating,
I sought out
The Inner Voice,
The Universe,
The Great Spirit,
The Angels
To direct me.

Breathing in,
Breathing out,
Breathing in,
Breathing out,
Breaths cleansed me…

So loud the answer
Came to my consciousness:
“Temperance,”
“Temperance,”
“Temperance.”

I saw my smile.
I heard my bliss
And the worlds
Stopped swirling
In my head
So that I could once again
Write my soul’s poem.

© copyright 2016 John David Higham