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A waxing and waning of words
but not at all with the regular rhythm
of the phases of the moon, moon that
once gazed at
makes you wish to witness a sky breath
and the transparency of the soul,
not that balance between what
is active and passive in the gaze
and gives words only the role of a shade
whispering around, like fingers
that nod at the currents
and the wavering nuances of the haze,
not at all the tune of this digression
and not in the least the force
of any meditation,
just words worming, clustering,
like gnats splattered on a wall
by a gust of wind, then scattering,
then returning attracted by a halo of heat,

words following an order anyway yes,
the order of the scroll,
you roll and roll,
proceed in the list,
try to be smart
or worse, wise
and talk like
in a square they say,
and you feel free
to reach the whole world
with your opinions on the scroll.
Free...partcipating
in the buzzing words' bees?

This was a blank page once upon a time,
like the image of a silent stare.
Spotless. Unknown.