I sat outside tonight contemplating
the mystery of kudzu,
the tentative nature of poetry
and the night sky.
There is no more there now
than there was before:
the chill of Autumn
and light years of emptiness.
I dreamt last night that I had cancer,
that my hair fell out
and the doctor's examination light
reflected in the smoothness of my scalp.
It was disconcerting.
Not that I had cancer,
but that I'd become a mirror
for the things around me,
that the darkness was within me,
and the light could not get through.
I'm sure there's some
I just don't know what it is.
I don't care much really,
but the image of that reflection
has stayed with me all day.
tags:Stream of Consciousness, poetry, Free Writing