in the absence of it all

oozing in the

space between

a heavy calm

that consumes

all in its path

creating

portals

for reflection

——————

it used to be

easier to

get here

the dirt road

which we used

to walk,

now another

chaotic freeway

before all of it

& long afterwards

that same sound

(or rather the

absence of it all)...

the lonely writer sits;

thoughts milling

as his yawns

stretch out

to greet

the rising sun

the droning patter

of the

midnight droplets

hold rhythm

militant-like

a ballpoint pen equipped,

ripe for harvesting

the garden of dreams

gently tended to

if wishes fell like rain,

then certainly i am a storm....