A Stream of Consciousness

My hair stands on end.
The thought crosses my mind,
and it's chased away by reality.
I am not in her arms,
though my mind sees this.

I am half a country a way,
entirely too far.
She won't wait for me, goes around the wall.
I sit. I wait. Maybe she'll walk by again?

This sonnet should go unread,
for I have nothing to compare her to.
She robbed me.
Of voice, will, breath and dignity.
I sit by the wall, stripped and blissful.

If I'm lucky, she'll come back around the wall again.
She'll roll her eyes at me.
Pretty soon, my hair is standing.
The thought crosses my mind.
Reality batters it.
And again.

Lights flicker on, again.
Life in the big city,
the bottom left corner of this pool table country.
My pen strokes paper, and teaches me about me as I guide it.

Dictate, ink!
Spill my passions onto paper.
Legible by the dedicated.
Understandable to many,
but only meaningful to me.

Songs, sonnets, stories,
for her, to her, and of her.
A one track mind around here.

I know little of the world.
But I know of her.
And not "her" singularly, but "her" generally.
But not "her" generally, but "her" singularly.
Somehow, that's all I need.


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