Once upon a time I found a beautiful mind One I could relate to If not so much such to its brilliance But through its struggles I found a kin-ness & now await my time to realise that all this is fiction and a mere result of the figety imagination of my -- broken mind
The reflection in one bauble is Different to the others, I see the truth of that which is the me; the essence of bleeding: Red baubles dreaming of the New year & another world Altogether
I sometimes confuse myself Imagining being you Having someone close Being more than naught I sometimes confuse the self Imagining teetering on the brink Having a place to escape Being boundless & bouncing I sometimes confuse Imagining a self Having a personality & Being
icymi, yes you probably did but I do not mind either way I do not force you to read but I like when you do I like when you take your time to read, to think & think about what might have sparked those words right there right there in front of you I rarely give it away I rarely think you still read I rarely think of you a friend a lover but just icymi I carry on
The low-hanging fruit of a year turned anew: shame and embarrassment is ripe for the picking. Not sure what is worse: the failing to write, or reading of words from other hearts awritten. Perusing your words was once a joy, as was the cold chiseling of words as art. But now, this day as every day I find nothing; no thing that will inspire and bring those moments back to life. My dawn is passed, and I meander towards the tree-line -- and the twilight beckoning
& the angel spoke of mountains
of hills filled with scattered dreams
of dreams ripe for plucking
& tea lights – unlit
