Poem: Thought

 

Thought

 

a hidden ruckus,

not that glib fake flow we call speech.

a donnybrook of puzzles

within a gnash of coarse

and yet complex folds.

 

a furioso, at times,

of mud, water and spark,

designed to rub some unnameable

fantastical itch--

 

an itch much more important,

in the end,

than the lifeless boasting

of all those nocturnal

dice-throws we call stars.

 

those stars worked forever, after all,

to forge this lewd internal contract,

this decillion-storm of little lights

stinging and binding and exciting each other--

 

all bubbly in a bowl of phantom soup,

a recipe cobbled together over eons

within a shell of bone

on a silly and yet oh so awesome

and cruel stage.

 

 

 

 

================================

A description of thought