There was a moment,
an unobtrusive speck in time,
when I created.
Weaving words from fleeting thoughts,
imagery from violent emotions,
and stories from careless whispers.
I spoke of a poignancy I never knew,
with a sense of cohesion I couldn’t begin to comprehend.
And still, I created.
A great countercurrent of fragmentary notions and quivering epiphanies,
wrenched from my heart and through my mouth by the simple want of a ruminating mind.
Simple, but essential.
No,
not essential.
Absolutely intrinsic.
A great drag of breath from the wooden gears of a clockwork mind.
It’s a sad affair, truly,
the disintegration of this kind.
[Featured image: Silvia Grav]
An Ort of Profundity 