The jammed traffic
in the cosmic
mind was terrific.
The crowd in the neurons
were radioing in little secrets
to fuel the talk.
Dental wisdom and itching
dances of tongue were mum…
the life we lived was fast movin’
breezes reminded the bad days…
the algal blooms weaved hidden pain
and untold shivers….
What can one talk when
he knows that the time’s romance
will soon end… Is there something
that one needs to be told?
does it matter any way…
At 80
to whom should one pray?
With only a spoonful of energy each moment…
how many goodbyes can one say?
At this age..
how can one know the difference between a dream and reality…
no matter how many times one pinches..
the answer is vague and one is a vagabond….
Thy Vox 
Published by