all this noisy quiet stirs me;
another day rolls off the presses.

afraid to read; i fear of writing;
people selling, people buying,
people stealing, people crying.

bubbles scour the rock's surface
of a white-foamy river, bending
so as not to break; steadily abrade.

where is the rock going at such a pace?
in just a millenia or two it will be
still here, just in separate entities.

matter is busy changing forms, constantly.
no time for the foolish to understand; as
the foolish feed the world stale ideas.

and the well-read ignorant stirs the kettle.

08/31/2010

Posted on 08/31/2010
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