I love little poetic experiments…here’s number 849.
Circular captions of carp that float on the paths of rainbows and riches and rags.
Once more I venture to the side of the plane where winds are waving and flowing to the beat of drums that I can no longer play due to hands that can no longer manufacture the movement and the motion.
I long for days of yore and gone that are long since abandoned by the way and the side.
To say that I am moody would be a deference to moody and an admonishment to the true emotions that spend their day inside the folds of brains and thoughts and daydreams in the night sky.
More and more these pulses of light and energy consume my waking breaths and thoughts and hopes and dreams and naughty little ideas of what life could be if I were not so young and not so old and not so sardonic in my thinking.
Alas they are done for now and I slumber under the guiding star of a black cat that licks and licks and cleans her soft hair next to me.