Journals

Now for the purposes of your poetic pleasure, It is published.   A thought on words, or perhaps, just one word: Do words never heard ever make a sound? Without making any noise is a voice ever spoken? Even in my realest attempts at wildest, worded dreams my soul stirs for a state that remains only an illuminated thought:     A contented being,     A completed soul. If there is one penetrating slide eclipsing the prescence of my mind more soundly than silence itself it is the unrelenting indifference of Father Time tied tightly to all the self can never fully own nor bury behind. And so it is, with the sound of my voice in my head summoned to sing or found forever lost within the lines of this fraying sheet, that I live in lust and vanity for an audience’s ear. After pleasant company, should they choose to reside, they can not be denied or preyed upon      by viscious second doubts. Plain to see, plain to read, plain to speak - our words are horse-drawn thoughts Competing for the duty of pulling us through. And the endless circles we draw without the slightest hint of our doors open to the touch of greeting a stranger or an old friend alike, where perhaps a word          Enlightenment is to be enlisted, but without ever reaching or reaching for the It itself; It, lingers on the tip of my tongue, It, brings me to the brink of chaos, It, drives me slowly mad, It, crosses over the yellow lines into a new lane, and released It could only go two ways. I feel It far for the best no matter which turn It takes. Now with your tender timber May you carry It aloft.