“… And on the Seventh Day”

On Saturdays, early morning, when the clouds haven’t
yet disassembled from their attention and
the overnight winds still bite at our backs, I awaken
with a renewed sense of muse.
The week is nearing its end, the twilight of six days
loaded with consecutive mental babble, finally begin to
coerce itself into blissful words, strewn upon
loose sheets of notebook paper that clutter
spaces and shelves with their distinguishing slashes
of multiple colored pen marks.
It is on these mornings, that all of this becomes
what you may or may not choose to read, on the assumption
that I may or may not let you.
I comb through these relics of remembrance, wallowing and
obsessing over their notations,
diction, and surreal markings, piecing together that which
works in correspondence, and setting aside that
which borders on incoherence.
I move these phrases around diligently, yet feverish in pace
attempting to maneuver my way toward my ultimate goal,
something that I could relay to you that would bless you
with the ideologies I had in the creation of this art.

About Robert L. Franklin

Ah, the About Me section - social networking's excuse for you sounding like an elitist prick. Hmm... what to say? What to say?
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