Sunday, September 9, 2012


I am recycling old conversations. I am recycling old poetry. Old conversations on old poetry. Words have been exhausted and all there is left is repetition. The art is lost - of showcasing yet cleverly hiding the possible shape a thought or emotion can form when strung together with words. The incessant discussions have ceased - of exploring that alternate plane where no one interpretation was correct. The muse has departed - who existed in various faces and voices compelling me to create. The ashes of burnt conversations lay there incapable of new life. The poetry of life drifts resignedly uncaring where sands of time will pull it ashore.