Wednesday, 1 December 2010

Dear reader

So let me write,
dear reader,
and swing loose at the
with a fist full of
fingers labelled as
and the other palm
painted with consonants,
growled, roared
into the faceless
shape of the sun,
at all of the suns
and the spaces in
the vacuum dark that
they don't reach,
and the little green
men we still
haven't seen,
and the hideous nightmares,
the horrible dreams of misery and malcontented,
malevolent, destructive desire, which
we've seen fit as a species to cast
out even beyond our
soiled speck of blue
to haunt the unknown,
which may still hold
untold and underloved
and if it does,
dear reader,
rest assured that my roar will
find it,
and, when it does, rest
assured that it will quietly
and instead be still
as my eyes and my mind
tick over,
cataloguing all of
that unknown as best they can,
to bring back to our blue and
dot within my calming
so you can, indeed, read
of it,
or just breathe deep
and go find it again for yourself.

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