I used to try and think.
Believing the words printed,
The click tapping of the typewriter,
Vowels appearing as windswept leaves,
Then drifting, blown across the minds page.
I believed, hoped, these glimpses of thought,
Would transfer. Psychosomatically, they did.
And then I knew that was all they were,
Letters swinging in a playground,
Laughing and dancing infinitely,
As only imagination allows.
Not sweeping the chaste paper
With a moonlit gown and glass skates upon the ice,
Holding the gaze, his hand, pulling your words asunder.
Thoughts dissolving beneath pirouettes,
Gliding upon the rink of extinction.
I want to hold onto them.
Push the magnetic alphabetic back onto my fridge,
Jumbled colours, red, yellow, blurred arrangements,
Dysfunctional, rhythmically they beat,
Phonetic they read.
Tweezered from a clouding mind,
Eked from the souls window,
Clinging tightly, grimacing concentration.
Fiercely, one hand and then the other,
Gripping onto life's silken web,
Upside down tightrope.
Suspended.
And the fraying wire snaps,
Its wings unable to capture that thought in mid-flight.
Connection lost.
Caught again in my minds matrix.
I am dislocated and then I realise.
Now I know why I don't even begin to try.
