• It flows of the brain like a river of honey.
    Dripping hot gooey delight into my morning.
    Swirling, twirling letters, needing a home.
    Words become hills and latch over cliffs.
    Flying like swings or their captives.
    "Too high!" They say,
    But go even higher they do.
    Falling not an option for these,
    Unless that is the meaning.
    Sad molding decay encompassing too much.
    A message of nothingness.
    Or not.
    A man standing alone.
    Too still and yet swaying lightly.
    His mouth is thoughts.
    His mind is words.
    Spewing whys, whens, and hows.
    A girl walks softly.
    She does not notice the fractures in this planed world.
    She is the meaning.
    Her words never surface.
    They hide away until someone cares.
    Is today the day?
    The honey disappears.
    The swing stops.
    The man walks away.
    That is poetry.