Where silence starts writing before I do.


I was going to write something deep,
but the stars blinked first
and I forgot the plot.

The pen looked suspicious.
The paper started to breathe.
My thoughts were laughing in another room.

Somewhere, Socrates sighed,
God rolled His eyes,
and Loki stole my lighter again.

So here it is:
a poem that never happened,
only smoke spelling maybe
in the glow of a galactic screen.

Call it wisdom,
call it THC,
call it what happens
when silence writes in my place.