the trees branch as they grow,
the wind cuts through the forest,
the sea breaks into itself eternally—
this is cleaving,
this is creation.
cells split,
shadows stretch long and thin
over trimmed grass
as the light returns
to the other side.
and now the moon floats
in ghostly meditation,
hinting at what’s hidden
and how close
it all seems sometimes.
I was never far from myself,
except when I was,
and writing this doesn't
make any sense—
why should it?
who’s keeping score?
who’s the grand cosmic judge
of all artistic expression everywhere
across all
dimensions and time?
nobody.
that's who.
nobody cares.
that’s the point.
it doesn't matter what
I say on this page,
even if it's terrible,
even if it’s rotten,
even if no one reads it.
it felt right
to let it flow freely in the moment,
to spill it all out.
that’s what matters—
the spilling of it.
there’s a sweetness in that.
in the clean slice of the razor
and the blood it draws—
quiet,
quick
and true.
drip,
drip,
drip,
all over the page.
