I write poems. I have for a long time. Some of them are not for public cosumption. Some of them are angsty and old and… telling.
I was reading some of them today. Some of my old poems. Perception is weird. Sometimes I like them. Sometimes I don’t. Today I liked this one.
The sun flew in
Through the window
And a newness sprang forth
From the darkness before
Why do you suppose
The rose opened up
Like I opened up
To new beginnings?
A crowded room
A silent street
What is the difference
Always with someone
Possibly yourself.
A cascade of feelings
Parading through my mind
Like smoke
Making shapes
In a smoke-filled room.
I wonder often
Awake
And in dreams
Of the mysteries of myself
And the world
I think a thousand thoughts
All at once
And really nothing at all
Like this.
The Life of Things 