An unsourced, pre-destination of movement,
is that the "gift" of an artist?
The ink hits the paper,
followed by the cold hard point.
Must all he do is flick the wrist,
with the hopes of something honest?
And the moment of movement is unkown to him,
he says.
He says,
he has just become aware that the black liquid was smudged askew.
An unsourced, pre-destination of movement,
is that the "gift" of love?
Two thin lines of sight going opposite directions
at each other,
connect.
Was this destination guaranteed?
Either way, it's happening.
An unsourced, pre-destination of movement,
is that the "gift" of life?
I don't want to lose this,
is there any way I can lose this?
"I don't want you"
to either.
And whatever happens is true.
Words tell us it's true.
Words flown with care.
Words flown by fighter pilots.
Keep flying.
