Percussive tonight.
Always pacing.
I can trace the pathways in the rug.
Kitchen tile past couch, around coffee table, to door and back.
Talking with a friend, a lover, a mother.
There's never enough to be said.
Something lost in the airwaves between what must be nations.
Sleep is Sacred.
The Holiest of Holy Rites.
To be partaken of only in the purest state of delirium.
I throw nets wide.
Seeking always to catch that which has become mine.
But perpetually eludes me.
I persist outside and within.
Above or beyond the many.
Yoked to the cart of the chosen few.
There is no rest for the waiting.
-T
I can trace the pathways in the rug.
Kitchen tile past couch, around coffee table, to door and back.
Talking with a friend, a lover, a mother.
There's never enough to be said.
Something lost in the airwaves between what must be nations.
Sleep is Sacred.
The Holiest of Holy Rites.
To be partaken of only in the purest state of delirium.
I throw nets wide.
Seeking always to catch that which has become mine.
But perpetually eludes me.
I persist outside and within.
Above or beyond the many.
Yoked to the cart of the chosen few.
There is no rest for the waiting.
-T