Thinking about things
Pulling on my heart strings
finding a new tune
to play on my fiddle is not happening
but then again what is is passing
by without leaving a trace except for the hiccups
I make on the canvas that was blank.
It’s not that I don’t think of cathedrals
just not then when I need an idea.
It’s a bit like history repeating
and searching for meaning
now something has entered tradition
when really all there is there for all to judge
a pink rabbit, a pencil and a pint, some watercolour paints
and an excuse to write. Analysis escapes me.
I don’t know what to call this game, this act, this show, this life.