Crumpled Pink Roses

If you write, you’ll likely know the experience of waking up in the night and trying to record some good thought in the darkness before losing the flow. Ah, but the rub is, trying to make sense of it the next morning.

in my bed surrounded by darkness am I
in sleep? listen my grey matter creeps images
flow no controlling impressions mysteriously

present in a free-falling stream blindly I reach
for paper and pencil unfettered by thoughts of
tomorrow the id let loose paper flies spilling

into the night next morning did I dream what I
wrote? in dim light my hand sweeps the covers
on my chest three errant pencils point across

my blanket to a tumble of crinkled pink pages
(the only colour I now remember the corner store was selling)
how like rose petals scattered I collect finding

unreadable figures overlapping some drift into
oblivion rushing upstairs with an armful of
blossoms every step in panic each second could

mean a tragic lost line at my keyboard I try to
decipher odd abstractions in phrases in code
a surreal collection gleanings feature captured

surprises fragmented images ‘iridescent hippos laughing’
‘circles bounding’ ‘tractors in springs of graphite’ (Huh?)
my scribble lacks any trace of meaning thoughts abandoned

in a flash the genie has left me gone the magic
that brought them clear-headed but now aware of
a guarded world I’m troubled about lost

messages for humankind gone poignant slogans
gone colourful phrases oh what brilliance fills the
trash can a bouquet for the ages of crumpled pink roses