Momentary variation from the norm.

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.

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