Art work by PicassoSPINNING ON ONE’S OWN AXIS
Like smoke from the
leaves of autumn burning,
my thoughts stratify over
the fields in thick
layers of contemplation.
Only the sound of my voice,
calling out my own name,
cuts through the miasma
and swirls crazily upward,
where it splinters into a
thousand words that shard
down into the ears of the deaf,
echoing like an insidious litany.
Go home now.
It’s too late.
I can’t help you.
