Ideas spin and spiral in
my mind:
a carousel of music,
colour, light,
shimmers with meaning.
Ink is the gaoler,
locking black on white,
confined, stolid, still.
There thoughts shrink
to dry shadows of
themselves,
become puny, brittle.
All my complex language
cannot make halos.
After, words are never the
same.
© Gill Dunstan
All rights reserved
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