mid-night rant
I'm recalling,
The unwritten life is fast food gobbled holding up.
A careless transport movement of bits to mouth.
However the essential element of memory, I'm sure, is a reflection.
Also, the unwritten is the unreflected.
Buddhist hungry phantoms relax with swelling void stomaches on regularly infringing peripheries.
I'm sure an existence can be so expended.
Undigested.
Furthermore, in the tangle of the digestion tracts of home life,
Who can not blame?
There simply isn't room.
For adjust and disarray to live cooperatively.
The table is set for disappointment.
However those subtle calm minutes.
Gotten in moans.
Those fifteen morning minutes,
spent sewing words together.
Those midnight scavenges for a bedside pen,
Chicken-scratching a dusty dream,
Those modest delays of thought,
Waiting on the finish of the fork.
On the off chance that there's a chance to close my eyes.
Furthermore, look.
I remind myself.
To take it.