What did you find there,
High up on the mountain,
Was it golden treasure?
Or merely corpses?

Ouch
That's just
Cliche
(Or worse,
Convenient)
We don't really
(These days)
Do "love" any more.

I'm sitting
Here, sipping
My coffee, and
Wondering
What you're up to.

I believe that
You'd believe anything that
I told you,
Except the things that
You don't want to hear.
Clearly,
You like being lied to.

Pouring through a prism,
Into a fresh soul.

Bubbling up,
A moving mist.

The first sights, and
The first sounds.

The world, she said, is not coherent,
I do not know what to believe.
I am free, they say, and information
Flows and falls through my sieve.

I once felt as though I caught the world
In a moment when it was off-guard,
When everything seemed inter-connected,
All one -- with nothing to discard.

But that didn't last (what does?), and ever since
As events spin inwards and out,
I journey on, on my long quest
To see what it's all about.

"Who goes there?"
No one;
It is a dark street,
But feels like green fields.