My nib touches the paper,
cautiously.

It isn't the absence,
much more.

Why am I here, what prompted
the rush?

Among the dreams and shattered
glass.

The pats upon a thousand
shoulders.

The hesitant ink is more
than I can bear.

It is not me, or part of me,
I do not see.

Of that I used to take
some solace.

But now, what, when the lot is no more
than fills a pot.

A place to catch it all, the deritirius
of years gone by.

I dream, another dream, and wish them all
goodbye.

They come to haunt me still,
as if I care.

So let us sleep, that's all I ask,
that's not much.

And elsewhere in this serried land
they try to bang the big bang.

What fools, what stupid, stupid men,
if only they knew.

It's here inside this skull, of mine,
of yours, of everyone.

That quietly there collide, and cause a bang,
of sorts.

And holes too, of that we can be sure,
too many to mention.

It's all the wrong end of the telescope,
held like an upside down syringe.

Poisioning us with nauseous liquid,
someone's bile.

Until we spit back no more,
we've had our fill.

Enough to make us want no more,
but memory more.

Have I said enough, or should I
go on ?

Find the joy and nectar full,
of sweet moments.

That will be an echo chamber
of words well said.

And wash away the plenty
that shouldn't have been said.