self

Write something beautiful.

If only I had the words,

the delicate control

over language

required to craft

spectacular art.

Mind paint

bursting into life

on the synapses of another’s brain.

Imagine

chemical reactions to be colours,

a full spectrum of thoughts

to explain

all of this.

Or is everything the pitch of night?

Is this why we can’t control

the way we feel?

We have whip-quick,

intense reaction

without the ability

to ever define the action.

If I see a rainbow reflecting

in eyes

I match it with

my marble swirl.

But it bubbles with stars,

burning,

retreating,

returning.

A molten pot

being constantly stirred.

Not disturbed,

but necessarily spurred

to go searching,

reaching down into rich earth

for meaning.

Expanding consciousness

like wind-borne mist

through forest,

river,

mountain,

animal.

Making a list

of all the things

engaging me,

there’s always something I miss

and whatever was there,

disappears.