Poetry is forever vague, or merely thinly visible
like a fog, by the sense of it, unstructured
is the only way to be floating
cotton candy clouds, so like that
they point heaven’s way, maybe
this will be useful, to be beautiful
in pace and form, syllable structure
staccato, wise and deeply considered, flowing alike
a face first waterside, whooshing a’ la wave wind
whiskers, whatever again, point is
I can get distracted by the language, I apologize
for nothing, as this may come to a head
but I don’t care, because that would be the point.
Not yet however, as this is only volume
two, of how many I don’t know
there will be in the end, if one ever comes
like it will to everything, because topics may reveal
themselves at an accelerated rate, and probably
never finish, but I wonder what
I’ll uncover, and I’ll die in the attempt
to see the truth, so be it, for the destination
is a journey questioning existence?
Is it true that every journey, grand day out
tennis tournament and tea party, refutes the supposition
that we live in a Skinner box, prodded cattle through
holes in the sides, of course not, for as freedom
resides inside, you see in yourself that the matrix
is real after all, perhaps being the only solution
to be hoped for, there is no reason to peek
behind the curtain, really, as there is
no air in the open, either.
