Now I come to the writing place.
My night soaked in
an impromptu storm of
Befriending my insomnia
and dripping with imagination.
No pen scratching in this place
but the clicking of letters.
and inviting me to touch out
words grumbling around in my head.
I invite eyes to follow
rivulets of lines
from the skies of my sleeplessness.
Come, follow my dreams interrupted.
The making of pictures
out of words and they out of letters.
Symbols from lost
darkened with thousands of histories
fashing forward by some sort of magic.