Circular Drift

Inspired by inspiration?

Or is it merely desire to be desired by my own imagination?

Reaching for the ceiling of my mind's sensation

And finding chandeliers of Truth that dangle from my mental roof.

What magic is there left?

And is it my fault for digging in search of a hole?

And speaking for the sake of something being told?

Are the means their own ironic end?

Is Truth merely a lyric-tonic

Keeping us thirsty and talking while trying to figure it in?

Is Destiny then, but a stream

That spins into oceans with all of the things it could mean?

And if it were so... what boat do I row

To find the torturous wave that carries my salt spec of fate and dreams?

Lost it seems...

But you know... I don't much mind laying astray

While all these waves just drift away

And carry me to where I'll think these thoughts again someday...

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