Scattered Leaves

Can't think, can't write. Brain muscle still aches: all energy withered away as dusk arrived and candidly faded with the light. I keep insisting on writing something, anything. Instead the past blows into the present like a sudden gust of wind, ferrying what are scattered leaves. Like memories, they lift, flip and twirl in empty space in my mind. Yet I have only this to conjure:

You ask,
love speaks
of momentary spark,
of timeless passion,
that lasts and lusts.

- Wannabe poet (25.3.2006)

Serenity entails...