I have learned so many words.
Which I can use to show what my mind tries to explain my heart,
too often applying some semblance of reason and thin veneer of propriety.
its never the words which I find of anything other than fleeting poetic value,
its only ever the feelings that matter.
My finest lines conjured always by the mind,
for who can speak in feeling alone other than through their eyes and touch and scent and touch???
up my paygrade if I play the servile corporate ghoul.
can achieve a sense of acceptance to crowds speaking within a discourse I find a hideous ANTI NATURE…
my feelings brutally expressed?
can destroy everything around me in a milisecond.
All these books I have read,
Balzac, DOstoyevsky, Hamsun, Tolstoy, ZOla…blah blah blah…
What have they taught me other than more words and the same horror of looking deep into the mirror of our shared humanity?
All these podcasts and documentaries and my rabid investigative journalism…
to achieve what?
There is no platform of words to rouse the revolution so many bang on about,
Its only ever and always about FEELINGS.
This measure of humans I had back home,
born of running as a brazen breeze directed as the whim of the lightning striking the very high ground I ever sought,
was forged into…
CAN I TRUST YOU WITH MY GOOD AND ILL?
I learned or became this through running with the wild wolves,
as the orphan weasel…
met good and bad from everywhere,
became both the good and bad whilst holding firm in my quest for noble…
in my grand old age,
I have become no wise man,
from all this travel through alien realms,
through all this throwing myself heart first into feeling,
I find solace and marvel and no more questions to ask or answer,
only in NATURE.