To paraphrase Faulkner, whom I have barely read, do not be a writer, but instead be writing.
A sad, indifferent, and greyish day
And weather that forbids to walk about
This brook flows in and out, sounds of the fay
Come straight at us, impending notes aloud
The images against the cloth of time
Present themselves without regard for us
And all is here and now, a bell to chime
A clarion call for all to come undress
Leave thee behind thy worthless, heavy bulk
And learn the magic game of flying still
What better manner to refuse to sulk
Than to let go, the mind with flowers fill
Return no more to weighing time, appease
Thyself and see as it doth also cease.
© 2022 David Rosales