Its persistent whistle growing
Sweeping through this space and
Blanket the space
Between here and there
Bridge the void and melt into
The downcast eyes.
Slip into a familiar pattern.
Raise your face to the skies,
Huddle to the source of the heat
And savor every sense because
Sense these days
Is getting rather scarce.
PAUSE. Text exchange between a friend and myself:
Friend: sup? [Did I mention my friend is pretty ghetto....?]
Self: Just thinking and writing
Friend: Dangerous [A man of many words]
Self: Not really. I'm just full of beginnings.
....And then I realized that that was a pretty profound statement. I'm so full of beginnings. A few lines will come to me, but any attempt at further formation...flounders. I haven't completed a thought, or decided where to direct my thinking. I'm cautiously tiptoeing and balancing on the curb.
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