Words march across the page
endlessendlessendlessstream of circular creativity
madness? or art?
the wind that sweeps
I will it to sweep me away
to the edge of infinity and back
to see a hundred lonely places
and the sky, shattered in pieces,
arches over green grass
and lonely blue where there used to be a roof.
the starsstarsstars call
it’s a mournful sound,
and a bit of sand and stars and fistfuls of rainwater-
but it looks like relief to me;
silence after all and a new dream that never dies.