Where Do Writers Go

Where do writers go

To unflinchingly bathe in a song of passiveness

To find meadows untrodden

By warriors’ bloodied boots

To inhale sunsets unencumbered

By fractured minds

Where joy needs not the crutch of sorrow

To captivate the masses

Where do writers go

To shed the ink of longing

Where do writers go?

Where do artists go

To see the infinite spread of golden streaks

To witness the obliteration of jagged slate and melancholy mud

To swim in a canvas of feathers and midnight

Where do artists go

To unfurl hands frozen in earnestness

To see the brush sleep in chromatic seas

To hear it lean on a pillow of glass

Where do artists go

To restore their weary visions with the balm of elsewhere

Where do artists go

To be molded

To be set up high

To dry

Where do artists go?

Where do the makers of music go

To be given infant ears

To see the puzzle and not each piece

To not add a note, a line, or a beat

To dissect their minds from the onslaught of sound

Where do the makers of music go

To hear another’s stringed lullaby equate only ever to sleep

To sink into a rest’s crescendo

Where do the makers of music go

To sway, entranced in the spell of the spheres

To remain blissfully uninspired when the tune takes a bow

To cease all humming, end all thrumming

Where do the makers of music go

To hear a symphony of silence

Where do the makers of music go?

Where do creators find

The thread of dissonance momentarily unwoven

Where do they go to be

Nourished by the brittle sand

Melted by the dawn

Clink.

Hush.

Listen.

Tireless seekers,

Be found.