What an odd day, today is.
I feel floaty. Not all here. My thoughts as flighty as wind.
I'm also feeling slightly poetic.
This is how it feels when I am tired.
I cannot force my thoughts to useful ends, but neither will the thinking stop. I find myself flitting from thought to half-thought. No thought can do more than tease at greater revelations to be had, and their taunting leaves me yearning.. wanting.
And what is poetry but sweet flirtation
with meaning and significance?
It's not so direct as prose, nor so sensual as fiction.
It's not so dominating as scripture, nor so desperate as song.
It seems to me poems hint and haw,
arousing interest they satisfy not.
Meanings dancing and twirling, tempting to touch
then squirreling away like illusory flames
Time to take a nap.