Coal-black rivers and streams flow through our cities
and we honk and roll our way downstream
always going somewhere
always in a hurry.

When did going somewhere turn into a source of anxiety or rage?
Was it when paths turned into roads?

Maybe we tried so hard to streamline every part of our lives
that now our instincts from generations ago
are fighting this new status quo
battling the very urban landscape that we've created.

Maybe it would do us all some good
if we sat next to a clearly-flowing,
actual water stream for a while.
Let the sound wash over us
and listened to what the natural world needs to tell us.
Maybe loosen up that wad of radio static
that's been clogging up our brains for a while.

The end of the world fades into cold,
night absorbs the day,
until it feels like the sun barely reaches its zenith
before falling asleep again.

And in that space we sit
where darkness and chill reign long
and days dwindle
even as months stretch on and on.

What year is it now?
What day?
I can't keep track anymore in this liminal space
between the old year ending and a new one beginning.

But I think it's time to turn my face away from what's gone before
and look forward to the future.
See what it has in store.

We were all born with a crown upon our heads
gleaming and unadorned.
And we can decorate ours however we like.

Some choose to thread it through with blooming ivy and vines
knowing their connection to the nature around them is inescapable
and that when the world thrives, so do we.

Others have adorned theirs with thorns of gold sharpened with diamonds
never happy with how high it rises
or how many pieces of others' broken crowns they've stolen to build it.

I've also seen some that are barely visible
just lightly glowing from where they rest
but that radiate love and care in waves strong enough to beat any devil back.

How much thought have you given
to what yours is made of?
Because it's never too late to start redecorating.

Where have you found yourself this time?

You assume it's a dream
as you typically don't frequent underground places.
At least, that's where you assume you've found yourself
considering the absolute darkness and absence of anything even remotely resembling light.

It's then that you realize
with the ache in your neck
that you've been looking up for some time.
And as if the taut thread that had trapped your gaze in that absolute darkness has snapped
your neck relaxes
letting your head return to a natural position once more.

You open your eyes.

Not sure if you had simply just blinked
or if your eyes had been closed for so long you'd lost track of time.

Either way, now that there is something to see
you realize you are in fact underground.
The rough-hewn wood of a fragile little boat sits beneath you
sitting motionless atop what you first assume is black glass
maybe obsidian
that stretches in all directions.

It's not until you lean over to get a better look
that its surface is disturbed
and a ripple radiates out from you across its surface.

A pit in your stomach forms instantly
and you grip the wood around you.
The disturbance was a mistake.

Rocky, shuddering groans erupt above and below as another ripple flees.

You watch as the water below becomes mottled with glinting, glowing orbs of every shape and size.
They rise from the depths and burst upwards
threatening your boat's tenuous grip on stability
and your quickly diminishing thought
that if this was a dream you'd be able to control it.

They hover around you with slow, uneven movements
like lungs only slightly out of breath,
brightening and dimming all in time with one another.

A hissing voice echoes from all around you
each consonant rattling painfully within your ribs.

"Who are you? Why are you here?"

You take the pause as an invitation to speak
hoping to explain that this isn't the first time something like this has happened.
That it's never really within your control.
That really, if you'd never stumbled upon that witch's cabin in the woods when you were twelve none of this would have ever happened-

But your words are stopped by the voice ringing out again
a note of tired resignation in it that lends your own muscles an air of exhaustion.

"No- do not speak. Your thoughts are loud enough, and you have far too many."

A cold breeze rustles the water and makes you shiver
like the sigh of a corpse.

"Whatever lesson the witch meant for you to learn here, I do not care. Leave now, before I command time itself to tear you into fissures."

In the moment it takes your mind to begin to wonder what gory details that would involve,
you again open your eyes
to the blinding white light of your computer screen.

You blink and sigh
groaning in-sync with your office chair as your stretch your arms above your head.

The clock says your shift is almost over.
Almost an hour since last you checked.
The muscles in your neck twinging in protest of your sudden movement.

You always go the strangest places when you fall asleep on shift...

Ever since it appeared,
I haven't been able to hear the roar of traffic
or the honking of the train.

Now when I open my window
I hear the chirping of birds and rustle of grass
until, of course, the ringing of steal and braying of horses replaces them.

I can never quite see whatever battle is raging behind the stone walls.
Just the waving and toppling of banners
and the occasional red streak that drips down the battlements
from a now limp hand.

I can't sit here not knowing for much longer.

I know I should probably call someone.
Use the tools of this modern age to see if anyone else sees it
or if it's just a fluke.
But when I reach for my phone
it sits in my hand, cold and wrong
like it no longer belongs to me.
Like it's the one out of time and place here
more than the castle outside my window.

I don't really need it anyway.
I've been meaning to unplug.

And what could possibly go wrong
with just a short trip into my own backyard?

I have started a dozen different poems today.

Don't ask me how many crumpled papers line my floor
Or how many pens I've drained of ink.
Not sure I've even kept count.
'cause maybe if I don't remember,
The ghosts of unfinished drafts won't haunt my dreams tonight.

Knowing me, the pile won't stop growing.
Not as long as ideas keep boiling and roiling between my ears.
Only a lack of thought will freeze my hand and silence my pen.
What a lonely, empty night that would be.

Whatever ends up coming out today
Has at least a few lines in it
And maybe some punctuation.
That's good enough, I think.

The ideas I can't formulate tonight can wait.
Of course, they will be back again to knock against my skull.

What I can always guarantee from this... hobby? Passion? Sometimes plague
Remains, that the struggle will be never ending.
I'll pick up my pen again tomorrow
To try and write another poem and instead
​End up staring at the blank page for a while, before anything even starts to come out.

On a rare occasion, it feels as if I have every task and goal of mine tossed into the air at once,
bouncing between my hands with the near ease
of an experienced juggler.

But most days,
some tasks fall through the cracks,
goals fly by without a care for my efforts,
and I flinch at the to-dos that get moved to tomorrow.

And if I focus on all the things I couldn't get done
it's real easy to get bogged down by mistakes.
Yes, it's helpful to see and acknowledge when and where I can improve.
But if every thought I have is of my failures
I will forget all my victories and blissful moments in their wake.

So today, even if I can think of quite a few mistakes I've made over the last few days,
I'm choosing to focus on my victories.
​Including writing and posting this poem.
Go me!

I will forever be amazed
by the things that people can create.
From just a single thought,
a masterpiece of paint, leather, stone, and more
can spawn.

The amount of time, sweat, blood, and sheer force of will
they take to carve miracles out of the inanimate,
​to bring to life concepts that I could never conceive,
and lead any witnesses into a world all their own...
Mind-blowing.

When people say the arts aren't important
or don't deserve our patronage and support,
I literally cannot comprehend where they're coming from.
Art has always been a reprieve and a lifeline in my life
whether I was the one creating it
or just an entranced observer.

So to all the artists out there,
be you crafters of words, music, sculptures, or anything else,
thank you.

With all my heart, lungs, and soul,
thank you!
And please keep creating <3