The assembly of words come stepping in the still vagueness of thinking, “Is there something you want to say“ “Something words need saying?”

At times you wait seeming to ask permission “Shall I come along?  Shall I wait here again for you?”
A word slips not sorely but given away, a gift, a challenge, a burden born to itself.

It feels beautiful… waiting. Then it comes another and another like raindrops they begin to flow. Disarranged, compelled, brought to a meaning or question. You resist judgement. You embrace a distant muse rumbling uncomfortable within you
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Then if you should venture to stray. In an utter silent doom; the likes of being at the bottom of a well overtakes you. Apologetically amusingly as a slight smile words return pleasingly again. The ebb and flow rushing in and out, back again and again in a hurried parlay. Exchanges are made, substituted, let go. Only on paper or by spoken word is the muse emancipated so freely.

So large the mind of it, so softly the sound, as wisps kindly drift into wandering fingers tapping keys in a dance split and crossed over. In hindsight by a little chance you acknowledge grace is blessed whatever you caught in the master mind of transcending lift. You've risen above the fray, above the plain of earth and have fallen deeply in love with the unified thought of mindfulness.

Writing is accelerating, distressing, bashful, and proud, playful and dangerous but always leaves you like a kiss.


BB2015