Another bit from 'Threnody's Song'; it seems the parts that are easiest to take out are these descriptions of scenes, written mostly in my head as they occurred, I think because they are more directed outward than the inward rest.

"It was to be a sedate night; find a chanteuse, and coffee, ink and paper in hand.
Ghosts from the past were tempting, however, though I hardly seem to know them, now.
The painted guide was soon slumbering, in the middle of a crowd.
A false priestess and tall harlot held court, gesturing honey
and demanding tales of the past.
The host and dusky northerner held their silence close, however,
even as the once-angel in his wreathe of smoke and the jigsaw savant poured forth.
I fear I have become misaligned; though I knelt at the foot of a throne,
I was no courtier – only errant in a homeland become foreign,
all oaths I’d made broken ‘gainst my will. No fealty, no loyalty;
I feel one step out of phase.
I wondered, as we played at sticks in the lopsided court,
if I could find others, misaligned, what would we then be, together?"

I remembered something, reading "Tallulah" by Charles de Lint, which is kind of a commentary on the same; not some thing, really, but a state I was in for a very long while, where I was actually so happy as to have difficulty thinking of anything to write. Not so much that I couldn't think of anything, but it was just a different state of thinking, so I did write some things, if less frequently, but they were either love poetry, or of a more transcendental bent than what I've done lately. I'm not exactly sure where I was going with this, except maybe to reflect on my life in general being reflected my creative impulse, I suppose.