Sketch 1

Light stumbles through

The glass and film—

Wanderlust of the Gods—

Spinning blades weave

The static air through

The static of the TV.

Fantasmic fantasies

Of you, and I,

Rolling around—

Feeling 'round for

That one spot,

That one spot between

Consciousness,

Reality, and name—

Ecstasy (pure

Simple).

Routine—once

Thought drab,

Overdone, cliché,

Now holds my attention

Weaving in and out

Of sight—within

The mind—Within

My soul.

Glass plastic and

Wood await the

Telling of my story.

They wish for parts

That I possess

Lamenting the fact

They can't speak

Feel

Hear.

If my walls could speak,

O, the things they'd

Say—the stories they'd

Weave—Scream through

The glass panels and

Plaster.

I am—at the same time—

Glad and regretful the

Walls in this room can-

Not talk. I wish

To hear the words they'd

Use. The arc of story

Told by the wanderlust

Of the Gods.