Unconsciousness,
like an answer in the emptiness of thoughts.
The Rain,
like a rhythmic refrain
on the courtyard and porcelain.
Drowning out then drawing in
to the awareness of footsteps
that seem to express
that they have always been
amplified tears
emissary to a thousand ideas
returning to the place that gives voice to them
over and over again.
Inspiration,
like the night’s perspiration
rests on the edge of an outstretched leaf.
It will teach of the gentle penetration
inherent in nature,
what is consistent when all else
is uncontrolled and unexplained.
The mark it makes on the unraveling bark of the paper tree
is more fluid than ink running down sheets
attempting to mirror something of what I perceive.
Spectator,
framed in a window,
disembodied and hanging suspended,
without an arc or idea,
formless and supple
to shapes though bottomless,
to a vision varying in permanence,
it has no ending and no beginning,
each drop is a footnote
to what has come before,
echoing like a fallen sapling
on the mental awnings.
Immaterial,
it still sends percussion
to the hours where nothing is decipherable
and you’re only afforded a brief view
of what lies behind the veil.
Where you’ll note in the darkness
the silent shadows cast by yard light
painting murals on the walls,
where the past would dissolve into the future
if not for one naked image,
unadorned and without illusion,
the moment’s gentle intrusion
of rain and wind intertwined
like a soothing overture
to an active mind
now composed
from out of the mesh of words
and answers in between
transitioning
into the unconsciousness
that follows the rain.
yakskinpocketnotes 