Misplaced

I feel misplaced,

Detached,

An evolving conundrum

Of a disjointed life.

My body is here

Whilst my soul lingers

In another place

In a time foretold

Within books of old.

I spin and gravitate,

Perpetually,

To English Moors & Castles,

Michelangelo,

Elizabethan works,

Ancient, glorious art,

And emblazoned,

Lyrical compositions

Of maestros like

Puccini, Liszt, or Chopin.

Sitting alone,

Writing prose

In the dimness

Of the night,

I long for many:

Jane Austen,

The Bard,

Emily Brontë,

Oscar Wilde,

F Scott Fitzgerald,

Or Virginia Woolf

To inhabit my soul,

Conduct my pen,

And perpetuate

Their illustrious tales.

Still, I’ll muddle

As best I can

Through the task,

Strive with every breath

To create my own

Piece of prose,

Whilst praying

My endeavors

Will echo the

Slightest remnant

Of long gone

Literary geniuses

Whom I so love.