larroney

The writers - each on their own island, Marooned socially in a sea of others, Writing from private lands, Closed-off habitats, In darkened rooms, Ink-stained hands, Cup after cup of coffee, (And - later into the soul-seeking night - shot after shot of vodka) Watching the sea from afar And dreaming of it And dwelling upon its backward waves. Dreaming of the gold-rimmed ambitions Of spirit after spirit after spirit, And also wondering if the other writers - Those far-off islands each so solitary - Experience the same waves, Or, for that matter, The same sleepless nights,