A song for the air (the wind) that carries it on (un)folding not like a story— (just cosmic dust settling on the pages) i am… or i was… (i think, i think) a ghost (i think, i think) (that never learned to haunt) Like an eclipse of quiet logic… madness lingering (in the spaces) no clock— only a wet glop uncounted …waves folding on themselves …fog drifting across a bridge each pulse between what is moved Things (possible) and thoughts (realized) A maze of colors… …chaos folding in the wind of noise …de-coherence — a cracked window on it all. i found a door (without a wall to hold it) …opening onto fractured stars and i walked through— (into the quiet) …where thoughts bleed into the earth …where bones get to remember so… here… i… am... Living inside a truth— so jagged it can’t be told — This city is the only (home) i know but who is the hand? my small song is not for you it's not for anyone— (no heroes… no villains… not even for the page) it is for the air (the wind) that carries it on it is for the air (the wind) that carries it on
