Too full of life for words.
Walking 'round in prose gardens
with poems on the soles of my shoes.
Homeless this morning, drifting, vagueries.
To sleep, perchance to dream!
Aye, there's the rub we've been waiting for.
The demon of truth, her mandibles locked across your forearm.

Too full of life for words, good words.
So I dabble with meaninglessness.
Fail miserably.
Begin
again.