The Wall’s Another Canvas

Take syllabic space ‘n empty it of possibility.

Akirakanisuru

Lying, list’ning.

Write it; move on.

Vissuhrah entoombed; brightist star.

Watashidake.

It is a song of poems – different parts in different verse throughout a night exchanging stories.

Let me/it, at last, then, rise, buffeted by sound-waves.

I have/I will have written in the waves of echoed song.

A spring begets a stream becomes a river raising tides.

A gradual, rolling rumble from few spots on the horizon brings a chorus for the dawn to sail its orange sunlight o’er.

Hikari kawa.

The breeze feels like an echo of a cold too cold to bear, as the gull glides on its currents and the waves of winter light.

Each of us with tales ‘n layered lives to be disclosed…

I sit in soft, surrounded solitude.

I think (/realise).