Who cares?

A daily hunger
that doesn't show.

Who cares?

A daily trip into that gag,
banished by reproach.

Who cares?

A daily path of reach
and retreat, retreat.

Who cares?

Who'd notice
if I'd not be there?

I don't care.

I've rested my case
and refuse to declaim.

Life blood
in lush colour
of humming scents,
a promise of a bloom
summoning a decay
- the swan song
in a ripe sigh.

To write,
to write it down?

All words
were taken,
in lines of
unrepeatable,
irreproachable
wholeness.

Then,
that sudden whirl.
Words popping,
flooding it all.

To accept:
expression is a drawing
and the self an esquisse
to built upon.
Flaws are expected.
Because it all
comes down to a need.
And that is okay.

Gritty paths,
escorting
whispering creeks;

stirred orchards,
laying a blossom
in aniseed breath;

a house in ruins.
Home.
Hardly.

The river flows
and giggles.

Sails wide unfurl,
the man in the bow
allows the horizon
to be born in his eyes.

In the man's hands
there is a land,
a shore,
for him to name.

The river flows  
and giggles.

A willow in a sand bank
is no geography,
only a choreography
in the amphitheater.

The river giggles
and flees, in its flow.