My mind does not work in dialogues.
It slinks through tangents and mispronounced anecdotes,
like a forlorn seabird in dense fog.
My mouth does not say words.
It hops from each utterance with no end in sight,
like a wistful warbler in a raging storm.
My hands do not hold on.
They slip over textures and tap erratic Morse code upon fractured panes.
Like a tactless raven with a dull stone.
My heart knows only measure.
It aches from self-imposed retributions,
like the abandoned parakeet with no more feathers.
About the Creator
Kit Val
I have always been fond of the human condition.
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