Of tales told and stories sung

"He'd gotten the idea from a book, not unlike the one you last read and loved, whose lurid covers you have already forgotten. For a canvas, he used not his own skin but his very life, spending his days as if he were made up of the most telling bits of other people. To do this, he learned to watch quietly and look deeply, past the busy surfaces until he could discern the colours beneath, the ones that did not change. One by one he would name them as he wove them into his heart in the deep of night. He touched you once, borrowing pieces of your story in passing. They are here still, in case you wish to look."

--

Alvin Pang, 'What Gives Us Our Names'

Thoughtless thought

Quiet of the night
Noise of the mind
The dying of the light
Is wrought with thoughts.

A bruising day finds nature's way
What's the use of a picture of a picture?
Dabble in utility but some things just 'be'
The world, like it or not, is fraught with this lot.

A fixture of cocooned contemplation
Sometimes life's a poem that rhymes without reason
And the people walk by without a sigh
No ostensible regard for unreasoned treason.

A shadow lurks but lends to discovery
High-definition's all the rage these days
But chasing clarity has made us blur
We could see better when things weren't quite so clear.

Quiet of the night
Noise of the mind
There can be no thoughtful light
Without thoughtless darkness.

For a fear of fear

And yet again, I
find myself, at a
loss for  w
                   o
                        r
                            d
                                s