The Driver (For Poets)

is discipline,
listen
i’ll spin thee a yarn
one in which there’s no written word can’t.

From a place in vice, iniquity and sin
grows a paradigm that shouldn’t be allowed to begin
till one night, after love and light
shined bright, against a soul
that soul remembers their original role.

Sometimes it’s life
that leads us to strife,
unelightening,
in dark times, around the mind, the mental noose is tightening
its frightening to think
when your mood sinks deep
to places of disgraces and failures complete.

Yet we survive!
and arrive,
on the other side,
alive!
Fully restored,
motivation revived
from the ashes of confusion
comes a profusion
of lyrics to brighten and enliven the  mind
from that place where pure and unrestrained joy resides.

So,
set aside,
your doubts for a night,
embrace yourself, become a survivor
know a little discipline,
become your Driver.

“Evening.” Said she, cold as ice.

“Bonjour, mon amour.” Replied Solomon with a smile that sailed across the open-plan kitchen dining area to fall dead at Angelique’s feet.

“Words of a poet, wallet of a pauper.” She retorted, languid and dis-interested. Solomon persisted though.

“Now, that’s hardly true, is it?” He murmured, flicking on the kettle and reaching for the camomile (Jonah’s reccomendation, he’d have taken coffee any day.) Ange just sniffed, curled herself with feline nonchalance onto the couch and grabbed up the paper. Their lounge-diner was a fine thing, built up in fiery days of passion and love. A couch divide the room neatly between the cellar door and the main hall of the house. All was warm and solid woods, the tones of the walls selected by his wife (notorious in her youth for an artistic flair.)