from the caverns of a mind
the poem as a stalactite
growing slowly
veined by thoughts percolating
through the canaliculi of time’s mind
drip drip drip
no draft in the cavern of an eye
or the measured flow
of a subterranean stream
such are the blind fish of thought
sounded but dark as no night
can ever be as deep as fingers
in the chaos of trees on a night sky
the wink of a peripheral star
not there when you stare up
into the abyss of night fallen
down down down
the layers are laid
never would such a poem grow in light
for like minds attract the dilution of tributary
plink plink plink
time time time
forming forming forming
at the cavern’s mouth they gape
at the single multifarious poem
hence whence narrows eyes
as the dammed trickles explode forth
the sun is out the sky is blue
but the poet is nowhere about
was it you was it you was it you
or was it me
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