October 31, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Soon as I dictate my thoughts to my limbs
to my fingertips
the thought vanishes with the magic of its inception
soon as I etch mentalities into a yellow legal pad
I become less of who I was
I become much less
enhanced by refinement
bereft of any chance of purity
am I More now or Less now than prior to This?
No matter how I try, can’t trace my pen-hand. Its shadow attached, trapped existing; out of light, extinguished, is its only rest.
Move a thumb. It moves. It interprets. It soothes. It means. It mars. It takes.