A page
A look
A spoken sigh
A sage
Some books
An undetermined lie
We search
We find
And think we're right
A lurch
Defined
Beware a time of night
The sun
It flies
In spirals without corners
Alone
Reside
In your mind as a foreigner
I think words live invisibly in my journal. I scrawl at the page with my pen, and when I turn around I discover poems I've never seen before.
I think this poem is a song. That's why it was hiding.
ReplyDeleteHow do you make things make such sense, Michelle? I marvel..
ReplyDeleteOh, Rachel... If you think I have the ability to make sense then I think we have a lifelong friendship ahead of us...
ReplyDeleteI would like that... we must meet.
ReplyDelete