Stark running rain
rivers of thought
rolling to rip the crossing
skipping to cry the waves
sliding on the sky
slipping in the sand
sundering on the ripeness
skewering on a bony branch
timing the minutes of abstinent words
that crawl out of cloudy wet streets
where train tracks lead to orange glass bells
tinkering and chiming
humming in tunes of hoarse hushes
thudding notes on a cracked palette
swimming in a limpid pool
searching for mosaics of fragmented thoughts
as descriptions of fleeting images
as stories reminiscent of childhood
dreams of circuses
of elephants and trapeze artists
suspended over autumn rays
of landscape distending under one glance
that encapsulates the thought and its primal seed
as the movement that was created
as a breath from rhythm and life
white foam on watery tide
governed by the moon
watching seagulls flying
listening to the dove cries
white against a blueness
of mind strapping desires
soaring out of wondrous
summersaults that double spin
into crispness of air
ripping clean
from scarlet valleys
of leaves in shadows
windows opening into a void
of open illusion remembering
the Rose that grew from tears and dust