Like a musical instrument or a blank page,
I sit silent – potential energy
of infinite permutations and combinations.
The turmoil, the conflict, the urge, the reluctance
Constantly meeting into those singular points of existence –
here and now.
A drop of ink falls on the page, slowly spreads,
Dries almost instantly. It’s the thirst. The thirst,
That cannot be quenched by water or wine.
A root shrivelled into disability,
seeking neither water nor wine. But what?
Something; I’m not sure but I think.
The thought. The root of perhaps madness.
The coin thrown, falls silently, infinitely;
Into the fathomless depths of that dry well
And probably lands on its two multiple faces.
The thought. The thought.
In solitude is comfort. And the root,
That sucks in biased truth.
In truth, the wall lies; growing steadily stronger,
More solid, “further” removed.
In truth sits that dayglocrazie,
Like a blank page,
steadily disappearing into oblivion.