Poems from a Sleepless Night

(These might come down after a good friend/poet looks over them . . .)

To My Muse

Draft_1

By: Chase L. Currie

I stand a man of my age,

Lost with me and my shadow,

Dreaming of the sun on my head,

Never thinking, you were there,

Sitting, walking, sleeping among my visions,

Of a mid-night sun,

I didn't mean to find you,

But there you were, speaking the words of a dreamer,

Into my ears of a aged soul,

You found me, in the Black Forest,

I walking with my shadow,

Hiding from the light,

Never did I ever believe you were there,

Never did I ever see your footsteps on my path,

What a fool I must have been,

What a fool I am now,

To think these thoughts spinning in my mind,

Leaking from my lips,

My hands build the dream of you,

As you whispers what you want me to make you into,

My bones crack, and I - - -

Fear, what the thundering sound of my heart means,

A foot step, just one, another taken,

Closer to a doom, I know is around the bend,

Hand and hand, my lovely muse,

You lead me down a path,

I am unsure of, questioning every sentiment,

What does this all mean,

In the eyes of a dreamer,

Does is mean I will wake,

Only to find an empty canvas,

Waiting for you to step into it,

My lovely muse, how I hope you never flee from my dreams . . .

I never wish for them to see you.

A Rose on top of a Hill

Draft_1

By: Chase L. Currie

In the hole, in the wall, in the small crack,

Where I can see outside, where the song of my heart beats loudly,

I see, something simple, a simple thing, they all whispers about,

Through the hole, I dig, I break down the stones,

I crawl, fall, stumble up the rocky hill to the rose,

There I sit, admiring every blood red petals, every curve of the body,

What glory is beheld in my eyes, with tears of fear,

I reach to touch a simple thing, a thing we all long for,

My hand cloaks around it's neck, the thorn pierces my skin, and a new red falls to the ground,

The fear I so dread, pulls my heart back to the hole in the wall,

I watch as the petals blow away in the wind of my wrath,

I sit there on top a hill, weeping for the Aftermath of Love . . .

And how I did love.