By Ben Bielert
The flashes of brilliance,
alight when they do.
A shooting star turning
night sky to purple and blue.
Piercing monotony,
a rapier cutting burlap.
Coarsness of reality
cut by adventurous spirit.
One never knows how many
will come along in a lifetime
each could be the last ever seen
the last run of the rusty machine.
And how long will it last,
my momentary motivation?
It’s like lightning in an autumn sky
suddenly electric, and then mundane.
So when the flash comes along,
I will catch it like a butterfly in a net.
I’m going to trap this miracle.
Here comes the flash, get me a pan.
Bloody Well Write 