Because Writers Are Narc’s

Why was I born
To see your flame
From such a distance?
How could it be so
Bright it would fill
All the space?
But these things
Nothing more than words
In the arcs the point
To numbers

Or lines in Sundials
Or moonlight

Crossing lines
Dots of light
Candals light the skies
Symbols birthing ideas
These belong only
To the Maker…

Is there an eternity

Than the one I dream?

It all began

With a sweet smelling taste


Always wondering
What my eyes will see
When they open.

You told me
I create you in my mind
It is all me
None of you
How is it then
1000’s of miles away
You guess the colour
Of my dress?
You say I create you
Out of messages


From neuronal ecstasy
Then how is it you choose
Every thing I direct to you
Without my direction
Linked we are
If it is only me

You kick your own ability

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