Writing

Words hurl themselves at my throat,

hoping for a release in tongues and air-

but my hands are busy elsewhere

and so the little words are

sucked back down

from my neck area, past my shoulders

and through my arms to hands, fingers,

where my minds-eye is busy

seeing worlds in

thought processes, inspiration in memory,

and the sublime in all the swampy forest

of my subconscious.

The words quake at the responsibility

they have had thrust upon them-

to frame meaning,

to hold the sense of something imagined,

something envisioned..

But my hands have no time for any

of that- they are frantically

typing away and so the words are poured out,

released in a torrent of air and steam

to take shape on the screen in front of my face-

and attempt the impossible;

to make sense of the non-sensible,

and lighten the void of ourselves;

our rich, vast, fathomless soul.

 

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