Words drift, past the pages and recollection.
Some skip just above a stream of consciousness.
Others hurdle by, accelerating into shapelessness.
A fisherman of thought.
Praying the last of his bait,
feeds him, just another day.
As the days blend together,
and the current thrashes on,
hope is a face on the water.
He’s filled his belly with persistence,
but the need for creation lives on.
Cast the line.
Spin the rhyme.
Feast on the dreams of tomorrow.