Fresh paper full of silence.
Never about or because, just perhaps.
Patterns emerge, ways unfold.
Taunting, teasing, goading.
Encouraging, forming, being.
A poet’s quantam, this blank page..
Thought before feeling, or feeling before thought?
Does the intellectual sojourner know the way?
She probably doesn’t know as much as she says she does.
Forgotten words are never thought, never written, never read, and never spoken.
Only the subconscious can account for all of these things.
But he never seems to be able to recall them when called upon.
The secrets are buried until provocation guides them up.
Words thought, words written, words read, words spoken.
The indentations the pen makes on the blank page are quite lovely.
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