in the wind, in the trees, in my head.
All that I had built around me – trickled free
in this the debris of my mind.
protected by the understanding of my books,
with a non stick coating adhered to my sides.
I try writing in less important rhyme
whilst numbly raising my finger
gauging exactly; the tempo of this time.
It sets one back – of this I understand
yet there is lucidity in these actions.
You might say –
they cannot shine so bright
as a face, that reflects implicit
manners, of all loves favour.
To which, I would, with all honesty reply.
It hardly seems to matter
as I listen once again, for those voices in my head.