Hello again, friends, followers, wanderers,
It has been a while.
This is a little something that randomly came to me just this evening. I find these stream/s of consciousness pieces to be naturally saying a lot in saying little at all. In contrast, or retrospect, in the analytical frame of mind, it is easy to put-down words that don’t seem to match the feeling or ‘intention’. What is this intention of this piece? I do not know. If I could say it it wouldn’t be prose, nor poetry or written word. Simply, it would destroy what is.
Enjoy.
What is it that twinkles at night
Bathes in the strum of a sun-lit palm
Open ended to ends it follows thirstily
Hollowed and hardened with perplexity
Rippled in reels of stacked herbs smoked
Betwixt way home and wayward
To the abroad, light of noiseless remembrance
Tether tears, whisper clear
That which twinkles at night
His Empty Space 