Thoughts of space
I've worn the rigid paper dry
my ink spills and there does fly
where once fine lines crossed and stemmed
Upon the fringe of all that echoed within.
The silence bears hard upon me
where the want of will there subjects
the mind to the hand its action'd course
Yet! Not a jot ebbs the tide
or finds a form upon which to ride
These empty barren thoughts of space.
© Alisdaire O'Caoimph