Forging into deep, black nights, brought on by literary plights,
hesitantly authors write duos of many words.
Fighting silentlessly back and forth, trying to be the first to write the world’s greatest books.
Mesmerized by the talent of others, left alone, to come up with words of their own.
Jostling everything, just to have some peace and quiet, totaling -nothing, writing pages of something.
Talent sitting far away from the population, growing impatient with the world.
Allowing no one to come near or touch interior thought as it sits in rotund silence.
set in times of imaginational space for appointed points oftactile existence.
Curious, I wonder if they have aromas, textures, or if they might taste good besides.Clouds always touching my mind, why can’t I touch them?
Although minds refuse to grasp and use any of it in mass confusion.Ideas and images darting about, are pulled into manycreative, cohesive thoughts, turning them into eternalpoems and laying them about in books to air.
