Should the question come
The answer would find me mute
For long have I teetered on the fragile cob-web I traverse..
Faces around smile or nod in their passing
All the while blind to the visions
I can see..
Living on the fringe
Between this and that
There dwells no explanation
And for certain none that I would give..
The churning of an abstract mind
Is purely how some were born
Copyright © Murrsma 2015