Dormancy fulfills existence aided by what must be so. Yet, I'm to make nothing of the slow build – the crescendoing sun, the mounting gush below the ice. Have you ever noticed that it is impossible for snowflakes to miss the beat? Winter's coat hangs next to April's umbrella and the purgatory makes no comment. This is beside the point. This is all just beside the point. Lately, words evolve in an infinite combination for everybody else, but all I can do is wait. I wait In recognition. I wait in wonder. I wait in a sort of implied monasticism that won't be un-muted. Other poets soothe and scream while I hold up the wall with my back. A new rhythm is not unhappiness, though. So the guru speaks.
In sleep, hints of the sea. My best translation is a picture in the sand, washed away by the watery score. Pillow barricades. Untraceable sun. These days are only days.
And so what if I cry? Never being alone means that my tears collect in teacups at the ever crowded banquet table - seating for all.