Things to think
But not so much to say.
Little fragments that scatter sparkling static
Of weightless notion
Across open miles of flatness.
Yellow prickles of dry dying grass
Stranded in a distant field,
And nobody cares.
Feel the tension in the small muscles of my forehead
Wrinkling and releasing,
Elastic concentrated pressure.
Things to feel,
But not so much to express.
Barren road of endless thought,
Hinting the glimmer of existence
Amongst the desolate air
Dense with nothingness.
Thin streams of clouds whisp around a burning sun,
And spiral their moisture through rays of contradiction.
But nobody notices.
Still the words don't come.
They build up in the gaseous acid of the atmosphere,
And offer no consolation to anyone.
The comfort of being is bitten and pricked
By the dull sensation of an imaginary threat,
But it isn't real.
And there is no one place to belong.
And nothing to say about that.
To no one.