It is the darkness Simon and Garfunkel sing of;
The steroid to my senses that creates thoughts without fences.
Like a mad horse without a saddle, my mind goes back to the battle,
And with that singsong rattle and unsolicited prattle,
The mind starts talking again.
As eyes close, vision clears, sometimes with tears
caused by the fears over the years, now, simply…
pixels on a screen placed there by machine interpreted… by you it now seems.
You may be the reason I type, but you are not the reason I write.
In my mind and in the night, such thoughts emerge with force.
These incredible and powerful feelings of such deep understanding,
stemming from the time allowed for leisure spent in mental seizure—without remorse.
This thinking hits a nerve, and the light once again takes hold.
I feel it, and behind the glasses and behind the face, it illuminates the hand.
I value the cards, think of the bet, and fold.
Now these words, for a reason, not written in sand.