These are what I would call poems, and what most people would call “poems”. We’ll just call them Ramblings.


My mind seems to persist in a liminal state of perception
I think myself fully in the present,
But no,
Then the images before me would appear
Sharp, crystalline
Yet they are heavy,
by an aura of the past or the future,
by thoughts and the hangings of imagination
Reality seems a ghost to me.
What’s before me never as real or tangible as the images that pass behind my eye.
Everything before me an archetype,
Muted and metered by memory
My own and that of others
Ages past.
A shadow of a symbol.
Nothing is quite so heavy as the meaning we place upon it.