Strange Days

Strange days. I have been purely a writer, as I was in days long ago when I was churning out my poems. I do not feel isolated, but rather like a man on a carousel, who knows the world will be there to greet him when he gets off. But some part of that is an illusion. The joy I feel now is the same joy that has flickered and gone out in the past. It feels ungrateful to mention it while it is still fully aflame. Probably I am isolated, and the time is so peopled with spirits of the imagination that it does not feel that way at all. I do not know what I was meant to do. I do not know if I have done it. On nights like this, it feels like I have.  Distant thunder.