Without Title

Without purpose,

Without weather,

Without wonder,

and little pleasure.

Ghosts hobble

Without measure.

The word wobbles

Tumbles, falls, and crashes,

Into an unknown ether.

Where 'known' is neither.

Perhaps just a dancer

In an analyst's dreams.

That's how I turn, that's how I worm,

The word into a shallow petri dish,

To see what might grow,

Oh! If it wasn't so old!