At the Cemetery Gates

Shifting gears at nearly 10pm,
Late by my standards,
The three o’clock naps not helping,
Sleeping until six or seven is good, though,
The coffee will still be warm,
The night burned off.

Spotify is playing an eclectic mix,
All day I’ve been distracted by a new project,
One requiring commitment,
Vulnerability, and as Robin says,
“Making my mess my message.”

I’m not sure I’m ready,
Notes are strewn about the table,
The room smells of Sharpie,
Bossa nova plays.

How much should I share?
How deep should I go?
Where is the line between fiction and memoir?

Tomorrow will bring answers,
Tomorrow I’m looking to find some flow.

After the coffee.

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