I cannot even begin to figure out,
what I should be pomeing
about right now,
and that is an annoyance tinged
in words and letters that swirl
on a page, but are absent entirely
from inside my head,
that great old vacuous cavern
where life has left long before
I was even birthed.

I was created with silence, live
with nighttime, explode with speech,
thus missing all the checks and balances
that an internal monologue might
halt, and this pome,
this paragraphm these sentence is merely
falling from my hands like
water from a tap, flow undetermined
and words unknown,
truly stream of consciousness.

This journey we take, or rather,
I forge and you follow behind a day
removed from my now, is one
without direction nor map,
though fear features not,
nor understanding nor worry,
the end is as mysterious and the
current and I suppose,
if I had to make wild predictions
and gesticulate grandiose, the end
will be with my own.