Alone,
I race the storm.
Air thick with promise.
Trembling clouds.
Possibility is brighter than rationality.
The radio sings and the wind
dances through the window
and across the back of my neck.
Every flash shows the ordinary.
I expect anything.
Everything.
Nothing.

Alone,
ideas come,
swept in with the first drops
of cold rain.
Loud company of bright possibility.
A shiver runs down my neck
and I shut the window
before the flash dims.
In the shapes in the dark
I can feel space.
Time.
Everything.

Alone,
but not alone:
An idea slips in
shivering with potential.
Not brilliant but possibly mad.
The floral-sweet scent of tea
curls from my mug
and mingles with my thoughts.
Nothing will come from this.
Or everything.
Anything.

Hope in all its forms is false,

the memory determines, but

the more you think, the less

you really know.

Hope is such a tricky thing

to hope to understand and if

you think you’ve got it right

then you should go.

But the path is always empty

and it leads into the sun.

Hope in all its forms determines

what you will remember and

the more I think about it,

you should know

that it burns you from the inside

out into the loss of air. You know,

nostalgia’s got a

futuristic glow.

But the path is always empty

and it leads into the sun.