It moves from East to West or so I think, but are there trajectories I don’t see?
It blazes through my psyche, burns consciousness as I struggle to make sense of it.
Back on my feet, I await another night, another soil ….. and solitude to plant the seeds of thought.
Will the seeds be blessed by sun and rain, or wither again from dawn to dusk?
Change is not what I fear, but the moody weather, fickleness of my characters and uncertainty of inspiration. Will my words grow into a book, or be content with some love on a blog?