The Carrying

You see, the words do not come easy
As before, though the magic of the scenes
Never expires, its varied spectacles 
Travel along and across the running paths.

Who never calls? Yet the expectancy
Lingers over the sea and the clouds
And looks into the half-lit labyrinths
Of the undiscovered forests and by the
River banks when the day starts
descending into darkness,
The mundane hours eat up the unborn
Words and never permit a birth.

Still walking in the twilight streets alone,
The longing is borne in the mystic soul,
To convulse and shake, until the unconscious
Lines spout themselves out, unremittingly,
And pull one back into calm, static restfulness.