Ahold of things

Floating on fingers

moments away from slipping or suffocating.

It is not safe yet, meaning has not been found.

There is much sleeping left, 

I am wet behind the ears.

The head feels the body catapulting and spinning 

on this solid mud earth.

Sinking in unsound.

The ringing of the ellipse, 

the thunder touched the letters as I type,

con-forming to thought.

What solace could be made 

with such furious fingers?

Latently the violence in man will awaken.

Grasping for notes and singeing the ends 

in godspeed.

Smoke fills in for music, dancing in swirls

It disappears with the keys.



Painting By Yamashita Shintarō (29 August 1881 to 11 April 1966) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.