In the absence of inspiration,
I forge, perforce, my own dimensions:
Behold- an elsewhere with paths
in every direction.
...
In blind of night he wakes.
the ship has: not a rock,
nor has it a quake.
...
Lighter in grip,
amid lips a cigar
it's a warm summer night;
eventide at its height.
...
Aisles Of Avenues
In the absence of inspiration,
I forge, perforce, my own dimensions:
Behold- an elsewhere with paths
in every direction.
I wistfully rest at intersection of
avenues, each one leading to
a separate astray;
each path an aisle towards
nothing but realisation:
I stand so far from the solution
any road infinite in length may,
lead me closer to a
more felicitous resolution.