WORDS
Now there is only one thing,
that gives me satisfaction:
the jotting of a thought,
unfolding itself,
on this sheet of white space,
crawling from left to right,
weaving patterns.

Words! alone they resemble
contingencies,
they cling toegether
to exist as forms.
Forms that rise
from turbulent depths,
spillover, to shatter
the peace of this spread.

Forms demoniacal
grow gruesome from left to right:
with these to contend
rise forms exquisite,
to still the turbulence
and to peace restore