Nicole Watts
Ransack the cluttered corners of consciousness
Picking and throwing mindless phrases,
Not suitable for the jury.
Ideas rush passed in a hurry,
Still unable to make time bend
In order to make due.
Can the moon, too, flip and turn
Until those of obscurity
Become the reason for pursuing?
Can the tides peel back raw flesh,
And scope through wounded memories?
Jotting what visits my thoughts
Only for it to exit the train.
The destination is often fleeting
But the journey can never refrain.