These Things

In these ramblings and scramblings is a thread of twine and rope wrapped around the anonymous, the meaningless, and the meaningful.

In this blurring of colours and the squeezing of the spectrum is a common hue that sheds light on a common theme.

Opinion is androgynous in this space.
Judgment is jobless.

All vitriolic statements have been erased.
And these smudged spaces say so much more about this universe then a statement ever could.
This is my secret garden
It's neither pretty nor ugly.
Neither full nor empty.
Neither up nor down.
Neither left nor right.

When the sun looms overhead, and the moon jostles for space
you turn the sky upside down and the stars are skipping stones
and you have an endless canopy of green arching above your head
the universe in flowers, the milky way covered in sand.

Caught between ground and sky your feet don't know which way to turn
and you don't ask why.

Your head no longer guides your thoughts
You're not lost and you're not found
there's no silence and there's no sound
where the end begins and where beginning ends

All these things seem to want to fall on you
I wrote a song and used it as a dream catcher
I wrote a poem and used it as a photo album
I sketched a drawing and used it as a mirror
I played a note and reflected.....
on all the things I don't know
And all the things I do
On all things I've done
and those I haven't
On the memories lost, made, and not yet painted....


I'll let you in.