sitting here staring at that blinkin' cursor
having nothing other than that buzzing...

“untethered”
shelves of faces wheel past our names...

That hamlet where mum's lineage dwells,
Ancestral ruins, where silence swells...

A poem is the funeral pyre bright,
Of pulsations once exhumed from the deep...

known quantity bereft of quality;
a name of little beyond its letters...

Farther onward, always skyward;
high above, hurtling ever hard...