The Writer

One to share.

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Thursday. The moving world

below the disregarded grey.

Everything familiar. I stay

for a moment, thoughts curled

aimlessly around the unmarked day.

So there, smothered by light,

stained by the ruins of yesterday

all idea of purpose cast away,

all shape and pattern wiped from my sight,

palely I grope my featureless way.

Having something to say

seems to be the first requirement,

however crudely the words are bent

to form some monument, to the way,

naively, my chance cards I play.

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About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on January 19, 2018, in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. I love the feel of this poem

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Indeed, worth it! Thank you!

    Liked by 1 person

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