Fragments

I think in fragments. Pieces. Transient seconds of perfectly poignant poetic perfection. Moments of clarity. Epiphanies in literary linguistics. They come and they go, and they are rarely complete thoughts. Mostly just shadows of thoughts moving between the wrinkles on the surface of my brain. I have trouble with complete thoughts. There's too much empty space between the things that are beautiful in this world. So I can only think in fragments. And really, that is all.

That is what I call the poetry in my mind.

The songs in my head.

The music in my ears.

The sun in my eyes.

The love in my heart.

And the life in my hands.