What Isn’t Reverie

I cannot speak, though I act upon impulse.
A lesser, inward pounding.
my bones and blood.
the windshield;
listening to other than words,
such machinations, foul our waking world-
a tilde across my eyes.
Shalln’t love be written in the context of commitment?
-it is the opposite object, to strip away that form.
a jest without this mark?
sensations not meant for categorization
truth isn’t theirs : the veil is the truth : veils aren’t and they are.
i haven’t given up on anything.
The shell is still hanging in lunar shape
juxtaposed, not indisposed,
a clatter from below
forever in the kitchen
forever in the undertow.


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Writer, aspiring farmer and homesteader in North Georgia, making ends meet and trying to become more enlightened.

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