I write because ' what else to do?
Short of rhythm
thoughts erratic ' from here and there ' let me dive
A jumble of chaotic words as in dream
replicating the pattern of my life!
I have nothing to write on roses
none too on the setting Sun
I do not weave dreams around the moon
nor look at it as the bread burnt.
I hold the pen in my hand,
experience a state of void in the mind
My feelings blowing out like desert sand
No tale to tell of the affairs left behind
I write because ' there is nothing to write
To write what is unwritten and
doesn't need to be written
And end up writing nothing
Where all writings ultimately blend into one.
