What is on my mind,
a clown, a frog, a lightness,
that blinds my senses.
Spiralling they come,
just like spiders from their webs,
thoughts of silly rhymes.
I losing it now,
the trace and track of writing,
so I let it flow.
The river runs deep,
they say that about someone,
that doesn’t say much.
I have much to say,
and wish that I could find more,
that was making sense.
There are hidden themes,
woven, with care, in the seams,
that need unpicking.
Someone calls me now,
their voice distant and from far,
but I hear it clear.
Then the silence comes,
like an emptiness, so still,
with nothing to feel.
