Posted in Art, Musings, Poetry


I had a conversation with myself this morning. I rambled on and on about what I would do with my day time. I finally decided to sit down at my desk and write. Write out a long, drawn out rehearsal of time passing.

When I looked up from the lonely computer screen, you were no longer sitting in the comfortable chair across from me. You had started the car engine. The revving noise, a distant dream. You, a train destined to an orbiting sky full of scenes. The very scenes I had written down in stars.

Of nonstop writing
I was swallowed.
Of staring out windows
I once wallowed.
Imagining animal talk
and shadow dances.
Us, lurking
in dark spaces
set to music.
Finding words
to match the rhythm
rolling in ink.

4 thoughts on “Talk

      1. It will happen… when you are ready… each day at a time… all blankets start off as threads until they are worked together… you can sit and inspect each and every thread… as though they are perfect… but each one is flawed in some way… as a whole though… for the most part… you will never know of their imperfection… life isn’t about the moments… it is about the overall time that blankets our lives… good threads or bad threads… they are all part of us… I hope all is well… I know I haven’t been around in a long time… but I hope that I was able to instill the faith in this life you once instilled in me…

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