Thursday, February 03, 2011

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!