spots of time

lost to words that dangle
in the air around my eyes
i pull them one by one
down from the ether
and decide how they fit

this puzzle of poetry that haunts
my dreams with color and sound,
defining feeling and thought…
how can these hanging words
understand the utterances
of my heart?

oh wordsworth and your spots of time!
would that I also get trapped within
my own reveries under the
sycamore tree of art! i would lose
myself forever

this wondrous bellow of love
and pain…
of darkness and suffering;
how is this human condition
so clearly marked by a universal
language lingering in the sky?

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