Morning Mood.

I sit inside a massive white fog of nothingness and play on
my imaginary piano, with one finger, a ditty: Sun outside….
sun inside… sun only sun. I feel massively and supremely
untalented now that the amalgamation of writers, poets
painters and dancer that were inside me have turned into
an immovable block of zero.

I look at a black dot ringed by a grey cloud, if I look long
enough the cloud will disappear, only it doesn’t, instead
the dot disappears and the cloud turns into an evil dervish.
The amalgamation fragments and I sit in a rowing boat,
on a green sea, watch as seagulls evaporate into a void.
At last there is silence and I’m my vastly incompetent self,