Words transformed into her vast ocean as she set sail.
She swam in a sea of exploration and information, filling her sails with a hungry mind.
Casting her net about in an effort to obtain more knowledge and understanding, driven by the pure joy of learning.
Before long, fresh horizons emerged,
begging to be explored.
More oceans and seas awaited, just beyond the shore.
Words and expression tugged at her imagination, leading her to unchartered destinations.

-Rhia Clay

.
do you feel it ?                                                 
like an empty unhaunted room                    
      with the night fooled
                                 it's curtains drawn ?
like a forrest                                                      
   ­       extinguished of creature sound ?
   do i feel like my child feels                               
                      like when he is sad or neutral
      or pondering the number of his age  (5)
or figuring how to tell us he broke a thing 
or to brag                                                    
      about his new favourite discovery ?

do i feel as nature                                          
                ( for surely that is unavoidable ) ?
or like a forgotten astronaut                            
                           ­                       (later  to be noted in song) ?                     
               whatever i feel                                                             ­   
            it's some kind of exploratory action
that's always the way, isn't it ?                        
                                       ­           a 'goddy' thing

i feel like i'd rather not feel                             
               i know fear explored provides reward    
     but i habitually drivel information                    
    and check in   inflamed   on habit patterns

A light
is struck
in highland heights,
and the vista
***** in
whispy smoke.
Tire-track clouds
distort, tickled
by the fleet
embrace of
such a
fickle vapour.
I pollute
clean air,
and lungs,
with my crime.
But
at the cusp
of mountain
and mist
I contemplate
home,
and how
I do not
miss it.
Not a bit.
My tongue
and senses sear,
and I,
at least,
am unclouded.

I smile like stained glass-
fractured, lit from behind,
but never whole.

No one hears the weeping
that happens beneath the bone.
It’s quieter that way.

Rain drops' lullabies carve serenity
and slither through the canopies,
while the world is garbed in melancholia,
souls are drifted by nostalgia.
The droplets ballet on the soil,
as souls wander in turmoil,
drowning down the lane of memories,
chasing a mirage where photographs don't crease.