I feel the heat of your words
and the pull upon my skin and in my mind, a memory seared into the butter of my brain.
How can I reach those same heights as before?
In echoes, a fly buzzes in my ear.
My pot is empty.
What should I call this plenty?
of movement and thought and words.
Is it mortal energy or given by a deity
or is it pure cosmic energy? Harnessed by atoms and molecules
going round in a story like the receiver in my head? Why? How?
Can I capture this force and use it, bottle it, settle the cause?
And will you understand it, those who don’t yet believe in
the universe in a jar theory?
This second rate poem created just for fame sake for the glory of my name.
To lift me out of the pit into which I fall when alone for too long with only a fly for some company.
Who lands upon my knee annoyingly. Who is more pathetic being? The fly or me?