12 days in the wilderness    

what solitude hath brought…  
a paltry sum of windy words      
silly abstractions with the scent of turds  

wandering the cedar dotted mesas,  
once a vast and dreamy sea  
inspired nothing in the verbosity of me    

now home from the night walks  
the ghostly winds that had so much to say  
yet if I heard them, the words are hiding  
in some wavy web of cells, firing blanks
when I aim at the blissfully blank page    

who am I
to defile this space,
with puerile pecking  
when the white wisdom of the ages  
eyeless, stares at me  
admonishing me  
that words can  
beguile the shrewdest master  
by convincing him  
they do not exist