Words march across the page

                        endlessendlessendlessstream of circular creativity

            madness?         or art?

the wind that sweeps

            I will it to sweep me away

takemewithyoutakemewithyoutakemewithyou

            to the edge of infinity and back

to see a hundred lonely places

            and the sky, shattered in pieces,

arches over green grass

            and lonely blue where there used to be a roof.

the starsstarsstars call

                        it’s a mournful sound,

                                    only me-

and a bit of sand and stars and fistfuls of rainwater-

                        but it looks like relief to me;

silence after all                                    and a new dream that never dies.