i can't think about how it might have been
because i know how it is
and like or leave it
the truth tends to cleave itself to reality
awhile ago, it seems so close
and yet so vastly out of reach...

not finished yet.
mind's appetite whet
by music of Caspian
with words left unsung
their sorrowful strings
played with intensity

drummed on...the soundtrack

to my mind's monologue

my soul is saturated with sentiment

none of it clear, concise or all together relevant

just a vague, random work of non-art

that i hang on the wall

so we can talk of it instrumentally

and never intrinsicly at all...