perhaps the moth simply doesn't know the strength of its own wings but the way it flutters seemingly erratic in its choices never straight forward in its direction can be infuriating at times as those silken sails appear to force it where none expect it to be in disjointed circles often far off course only occasionally will it find itself exactly where it should be whether accidentally or by design its every path is filled with calculated corrections revisions and redress in order to reach its intended that source of light one way or another
at breakfast another hotel restaurant another choice to be made of mediocre cooked or bland continental a fish bowl of floor to ceiling panoramic windows people-watching strangers passing insignificantly through one another's universes parents desperate to negotiate the morning without a scene suits with shirt and tie top buttons undone for now retiree couples happy in each others silence or those lucky ones who still find words when alone together or the curious solo diners alone and lost in their own thoughts or striving to hide how they watch those others as they go about their business of goodness-knows-what another banquet shared unbeknownst to all in attendance
a gentle patter of rain tapping politely at the window not tempestuously but imposing enough in its constancy a passive aggressive reminder from the heavens of our ultimate lack of control such a minor obstacle and yet it tips the scales of what was planned or hoped for to something perhaps unforeseen not yet considered i thought i had no intention of leaving the house but find myself rolling my eyes with huff and sigh cursing the grey for ruining that potential
by lunchtime windscreens glisten with newly welcomed sunlight reflected blindingly from droplets that linger despite the fresh warmth carried in the convective air it no longer appears to be "coat weather" though the ground is still puddled to squelch or splash underfoot perhaps i could venture outside after all with a motivation fuelled by this latest change but for all the blue stretching the sky there is still that darkened mass of cloud hanging heavy in the distance unable to tell if it has been weathered already or is another downpour yet to come
his hands are firmly wedged inside pockets unwilling to risk exposure to this frost-coated morning if he tripped or slipped stumbled fell even then he would not rely on their numbed support he could not trust that they would do what was necessary if called upon deep in the sherpa-lined abyss of his coat his fingers remain protected in gloves clenched and wriggling with all hopes resting on a return of warmth of bloodflow of feeling before he gets home before central heating and chill-blains turn his frozen tips into scalding rods when there is no use but to desperately and ironically wish that he could not feel anything at all
There has to be something to show the way, In the fumbling flash of thoughts and just how, As night draws us closer to each dawning day, Where we plan for a future that grows out of now.
There has to be something to do or to say, In a stumbling dash to prevent or allow, The night that approaches to soothe a bright day, Where the words resonate and the sound is just… "wow..."
Grown from free associating, and probably about the feelings when reading another person’s verse. The best ones come falling out, imperfect but fully formed anyway, right? I feel like my best poetic writing are ones whose origin I couldn’t clearly tell you; whose meaning isn’t completely clear.
At the edge of a cliff My heart sprints like a bullet My arms tremble impatiently Waiting for my decision Do I stay on solid ground Where the illusion of safety is a blanket Only faintly covering The truth of impending doom? Or do I dive into the unknown Hoping to splash into water And avoid the jagged land?