There come dark times,
When the words come flow,
When the quill won’t incise deep enough,
And the veins runneth only with dust,
In these hapless moments,
He comes to me,
Across grey matter and stars,
My other self,
The clown in my head,

It’s an intervention by oneself,
The man in the top hat,
A hand resting on my shoulders,
And a swift bat on the ear from his cane,
He speaks new hopes into my hands,
Baring every positive I won’t allow myself,
Filling my veins anew,
Ratifying my creative soul,
In his usual unhinged style,

Through his words I know,
When I struggle to push forth,
He’ll lift my hand to the page.


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