Wednesday, November 22


I no longer know the language
the ink in my pen has dried.
And when I rub my fingers together,
crumb of bytes fall off.

I have no complaints whatsoever.
There's nothing to hide.
Even joy is bare.
Sadness will always be veiled..
Poetry's returned to my life.

This city lets me walk around by myself.
I like to walk around.

I walk.


coyote said...

And that's when the poetry comes. For me too. Is it the time for one's own thoughts? The beat of one's feet, imposing a meter upon the random words that flicker though one's consciousness? Dunno. I like walking, though. And I like this poem, too, fingers...

100hands said...

Very nice indeed. Your fingers never tire. Your metamechanical hands are aiming higher.

Jugular Bean said...

This one's pretty.

Anonymous said...

ur back! thank heavens!

drifting leaf said...

you're back...!!