The Words spill out.
One minute they’re in my head
Then the words spill out
And they’re in yours.
A torrent of pointless epithets
Spewing forth
Without pause.
In a house full of bookcases,
A cathedral of ideas,
The truth is still elusive
As we trundle
Down the years.
Chasing imagination
Between the trees
Of illusion.
Trapped in the tides
Of a sea
Of delusion.
The words still spill out
Of nowhere.
Into the void
That is somewhere.
Opher 19.11.2022
I don’t know where all these words and ideas keep coming from. They just appear in my head and I write them down.
The whole process is wondrously pointless and achieves nothing.
I know that.
It doesn’t stop me though.