Trying to catch a thought to write it down,
despite years of serious effort, seems
sometimes, so pointless; and though I may clown
and gambol with these words that come like dreams
I realize they are not concrete things.
Perhaps they represent solid matter,
for deep within their core, a stillness sings;
more likely they are meaningless chatter.
True, it is my sense of self that draws
them here; they have no motive of their own,
nor need to fling themselves, cackling jackdaws
picking at the marrow of the soul’s bone.
In fact, these words may not at all exist,
except to provide shadows in a mist.
30 JUN 2003
