jerome

Shallow words that echo beyond time,
thoughts poised in flight upon a blue monochrome wall,
converge with the early morning sun.
Eyes the depth of puddles try in vain
to understand why artists dream.
Light which has no beginning runs from
places where sound paints the night with dark grey clouds.
Sometimes,
when minutes and seconds merge with emotion,
he is still.
For just one ghost of a moment he is still.
In the abstract,
blue winds engulf the whisper of life around him;
echoes of a bee's song in his soul.
Then,
time returns to dots prescribed upon a clock,
and
his empty heart runs through sun-lit corridors of paper souls.
Always,
his dreams see cold flourescent lights that echo his man-made world of hollow words;
words that are tossed like fragments of paper into the wind.
It is a madness in itself;
a man who desires only to swim in the shallow of puddles.