Yellow Rose's Garden

Ok... so, here I am in the wee hours of the morning. Some people ask why, others already know. Partly insomnia, mostly I just prefer the quiet of night and want to avoid disturbing the sleep of someone else. My writing and such is more prolific then. Oddly, my best thoughts come to me when I lay down to sleep. I started taping my thoughts on a small cassette recorder.

I'm in a mixed mood at the moment. Nervous over the dental surgery, yet, thoughtful. I wrote this recently:

Long ago, I believed in fairy tales and things like love.
Somewhere along the line, faith in these things seems to have disappeared like the color in my hair.
Colors of sunset in summer faded to those of snow on an old tree.
The tree lays dormant only to rise to bloom again in spring.
Am I the tree awaiting the light of the sun's first rays in spring or am I the driftwood awash in the beach left to fate's hand?
Walls built to contain the heart and hold it away from hurt suddenly begin to fall away like a newly formed rose opening.
I live lost in the dreams of night brought to life with your voice and touch.
When I wake, I weep, the broken dreamweaver's spell reminds me that you are far away.
It is then when it hurts most, when I realize, that though distance separates I have never felt closer, yet, never so lost.

I hadn't written poetry in ages and boom, suddenly, inspiration. The muses are cool like that. Muses aren't always Greek sisters. Often, they are found where we least expect them. It's usually best to not question those blessings.