I want my own Dead Poet’s Society.
I want a few friends to disappear with into the night.
I want a couple bottles of whiskey.
I want a cigar or two.
I want a beach clearing.
I want battered poetry books of old.
I want a Kindle filled with poets new.
I want paper and pens strewn across the picnic towel.
I want lifeless poems sacrificed to the drift wood fire.
I want unafraid voices carrying the survivors.
I want exhaustion.
I want self-consciousness dead.
I want myself alive.
The daily post prompt asked a question similar to ‘do groups of people inspire you?’ My answer is a resounding yes, and it made me miss the feelings I had at tertiary.
The late-night working sessions,
the coffee induced craziness,
the comfortable sigh of completing something magical.
It seems so out of reach now.
E.
