For even space is occupied,
There is both foreground & background.
That which is visible
And that which is elusive.

Like vapor from water forming clouds.
Like gaseous vents expelling
What can not be seen, but felt.

All is & all is connected.

So Kronos is the name, yes?
And Ouroboros the title?
Can you guess what they were responsible for?

Keeping time is more
Than just watching the shadows.
More than just lurking in them,
More than just by lurking among them.

Coming from a time of oral record;
What, or more aptly whom,
Is responsible for it?

I was a ****** hopping trains,
Strung out on morphine
When they hired me at the mine.

That same story
Is much like mine,
Only there were other guys.

No, in mine too.
They orchestrated and I played instrument,
They used me as a patsy for their wasteful deeds.

Did they have you use an explosive device?

Did they have you use a pistol?

Did you shoot with a rifle?

Did they give you poison?

I sailed the rivers in a basket,
And my sight was not obscured by the reeds.
Overhead, the clouds cleared
And in my heart was a compass
Which lent to me direction
Under these starry skies.

I sampled all the miseries & delights,
I encompassed all of life:
I was a clap & echo in time.

I like to sprinkle my likeness within my work,
Sometimes it's elusive or hidden.
Sometimes it is plainly written out
If you just read it from the right perspective.
A bird's eye view,
The lense of the cartographer,
The fun of the stenographer:
A wider & broader picture.

The thought I meant to write
was lovely and serene, but gone
before I found the words to make it stay.

Perhaps it had the wrong address, was meant
for someone else and fled, embarrassed to be thought
instead by me;

Or maybe it was floating free
And somehow blundered into me
But barely made a dent and didn’t stay;

Or it could have been a wayward dream
Stranded on this side of sleep
Waiting for the night to slip away;

Most likely just a thought of mine,
But one I couldn’t grasp in time,
And remember as the thought that got away.

A silhouette drifts through the mist,
shaped by memory but not quite there—
a figure lost between the spaces
where time forgets its own name.


Wings flutter, soft as dust,
stirring the silence in slow breaths,
like the whispered promise
of something never meant to be.


The air is thick with the weight of nothing—
a presence that slips through your fingers
before you can hold it,
before you can understand.


In the distance, a song plays,
but its notes are hollow,
echoing through the vacant spaces
of a forgotten world.


It is as though the fairy exists,
but only in the spaces where eyes do not see,
where dreams and memories fold together
like forgotten pages,
and everything is both real
and utterly lost.


You reach for the hollow light,
but it fades before you touch it,
leaving only the scent of something once pure,
a trace of something you can never claim,
floating away
into the quiet dark.

As sweet as summer rain
Elusive like a melody
From a dream.
I waited for you
On the bridge
I thought I heard your voice.