praps - rewrite - now it's tite

(untitled)

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.

I think.

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.