I write for an audience.
After all, I know my own mind, don't I
Dear audience, are you also tiring of games?
What a strange and lonely thing
To go online in the morning and have not a single email
And in all of the wide content of the internet
In the many layered words which have been sent
Is there not one which will comfort me?
We repeat and add on
It's always been known that history is a cycle
Not just everyone's but my own, repeating and spinning.
Wide spaces fill my mouth. Wideness empties my mind
In all this incredible space
There is form, but little content
What would I do with substance? An empty creature, I
Would merely give it to someone, or choke;
It is not for any of us to know substance.
If six layered petals fall to the ground
From some tree, somewhere, and I see them
Couldn't it be said they also came from me?
We worry about ifs, we worry
We scratch our skins of with sand-like worry, deep in our crevices
Until our bones are smooth, shiny, fea