There comes a time while writing
when it seems there is nothing else to write
the space
the white pixel, faux paper screen
the air around the headspace not thinking
the pulse of the heart in the chest always beating
the room and the chair and the desk and the lamp
all still and silent and awaiting the next song
so they can dance once again
one time only keep the moment full and blooming
or receding or detaching and attaching
and inflating or removing
it’s all the same
the beginning and the ending
and the half-life of the fullness
and overflowing of the emptiness
in all there is and all that there is not